


The Apocalypse that Wasn't

by falseari



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:09:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28768356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falseari/pseuds/falseari
Summary: A look at the ten days leading up to the 1963 Apocalypse, in the timeline Five missed.
Relationships: Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Lila Pitts, Diego Hargreeves/Lila Pitts, Klaus Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Luther Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Sissy Cooper/Vanya Hargreeves, The Hargreeves Family
Comments: 97
Kudos: 61





	1. November 15: Diego

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone else dying to know how the Umbrella Academy all got together and drastically improved their powers in the ten day gap of timelines leading to the Season 2 opener? Me too, here's my best shot.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diego makes his escape from Holbrook Sanatorium.

“Alright, I’m okay!” Diego urges, releasing his grip on Dr. Moncton’s corduroy jacket. One of the crueler nurses that Diego hasn’t bothered to learn the name of levels him with a glare. The unspoken threat of another syringe full of tranquilizer hangs in the room. Diego backs off further, hands placating. 

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” he reassures them. He sinks slowly back down into the metal folding chair, careful not to dislodge the stolen pen sticking out of his waistband. 

In a stroke of possibly the only luck Diego’s had since landing in this godforsaken decade, Moncton leaves the room with a shake of his head. The nurse is quickly distracted by the lady near the window ripping clumps of her own hair out. Diego exhales in relief. Today especially, he needs to have all his wits about him. 

Plan A’s a bust. Moncton’s confirmed that Diego isn’t walking out of here the easy way for at least another month and a half. That’s assuming the bracelet making and fingerpainting haven’t actually driven him insane by then. Lee Harvey Oswald makes the shot in seven days. Diego needs to be out with plenty of time to ensure that never happens. 

Plan B. Shave down the bars, climb out the window. A few more hours of filing, which he can get in after dinner if nothing goes wrong, and the bars won’t be an issue. The window, however, is on the small side. Diego’s not abundantly confident that he can fit through it without snapping his collarbone. 

That leaves Plan C. Pick the cell door with Moncton’s graciously donated pen and knock out whatever guards get in the way before they can stick a needle in Diego’s neck. Most importantly: be far, far away by the time the police show up. 

Diego's train of thought derails when he senses Lila's eyes on him, sharply staring at the side of his head from the next chair over. She’ll look away once he catches her, then start staring again when he turns away, until finally he asks her what the hell she wants. It’s some game of her’s, as far as Diego can figure. 

He glances over. She innocently jerks her gaze towards the ceiling. 

Diego’s not sure what Lila’s deal is, really. She was checked into the institution the same day as him, though she required notably less handcuffs and restraint. She doesn’t talk much during group, and when she does, it’s always flippant or vague. Once, she mentioned to Diego that she sees things that nobody else does. Compared to his brother, the only other person he knows with such an issue, he thinks she seems remarkably stable. Irritating, and somewhat strange, but stable. For whatever reason, Lila sticks to him like the glue she huffs while the nurses aren’t looking. 

Lila drives him a little bit crazy. But in this place, she sometimes seems like the only thing that’s keeping him sane. 

* * * 

“You? A lone wolf?” Diego asks incredulously, later that afternoon. He snatches the glue bottle she’s holding to her nose before any of the nurses can take notice. “I can’t even take a piss without you trying to follow me into the bathroom.” 

“Who says you’re another wolf? Maybe you’re just the rabbit I’m hunting,” Lila shrugs, sliding on the beaded bracelet Diego had thrown on the table. 

“Pretty shit hunter,” Diego mumbles. 

Lila grins conspiratorially. “That’s exactly what the wolf would want the rabbit to think,” she whispers, leaning forward until her nose nearly touches his. 

Diego drops his head to the table, too wound up to deal with Lila’s antics right now. The clock on the wall tells him there’s still thirty painful minutes of arts-and-crafts time left. 

The fact that it’s his last thirty minutes of arts-and-crafts ever offers little respite. With how slow time ticks by in Holbrook Sanatorium, tonight’s escape may as well be weeks away. 

The beads on the table rattle as Lila plops her head down next to his. She blows air at the back of his head in puffs until he reluctantly turns to face her. 

“What is your problem?” he asks, with more exhaustion than bite. 

“What are you going to do once you break out of here?” 

Diego sits up, spinning around in his chair to make sure no nurses are in earshot. When no one approaches him with handcuffs or a needle, he glares back at Lila. Her eyebrows are raised in question, her cheek squished against the crafts table. 

“Don’t say that out loud,” he scolds. 

“That’s what Dr. Moncton calls, ‘avoiding the question.’” 

Diego flicks a bead across the table at her. It hits her in the nose without him even having to curve it. 

“And _that’s_ what he calls ‘anger issues,’” Lila says, smirking. 

Diego clenches his fist around a knife that isn’t there. “I tell you my plan,” he grumbles, keeping his voice low enough for only Lila to hear, “and you leave me alone for the rest of the day.” 

She giggles in that slightly manic way of hers. “No, you tell me the plan, that way I have an idea of where we’re going when we get out tonight.” 

“If you think I’m breaking you out, then you really are crazy,” Diego huffs. 

“How cute that you think I need your help,” she replies, sitting up to tuck her hair out of her face. The light glints off multiple bobby pins she has stashed just above her ear. 

Diego’s jaw tightens. “It takes a little more finesse than just jamming bobby pins in a lock, you know. Not to mention the fact that you’ll never make it past the guards.” 

Lila bats her eyelashes as she rests her chin in her hands. “Well, it’s a good thing I have a big, strong man to take them out for me, isn’t it?” 

“Not if I can make it out the window.” 

She squints at him, assessing his body before glancing back to his face. “I get what they mean,” she says, resigned. 

Diego blinks. “What who means?” 

“The doctors,” she states simply. “When they say you’re delusional. I do see it now.” 

Diego feels his nails dig into his palms. 

Lila’s straight face breaks with a peel of laughter. “Diego,” she says, her voice thick with condescension. “Have you seen your shoulders?” 

“They pop out, I pop them back in,” he replies, making no effort to keep the bravado out of his voice. 

“You plan on duct taping your collarbone back together when it snaps, too? And what about the head injury from when you flop out of that window with no functional arms to catch yourself?” Lila asks. 

Diego’s mouth opens and shuts. He feels his face heats up, and chooses to blame it on anger rather than embarrassment. 

Lila grins like a shark. “Guess that only leaves one option, doesn’t it?” 

A nurse, one of the older ladies, pulls up the chair next to Lila. It screeches against the floor in protest. “What option is that, Lila?” she asks. Friendly, but the kind of friendly one is with a toddler. 

“I don’t have enough beads left to make a necklace, so I have to make a bracelet instead,” Lila answers smoothly. 

The nurse’s gaze lands on the abundance of unused beads scattered across the table. 

“I don’t want any of the ones Diego touched. Idiocy is contagious,” she explains, winking in Diego’s direction. 

The nurse just nods with patient understanding. 

* * * 

The Sanatorium is silent that night, save for the buzzing of the lights and the click of Diego’s cell lock giving way to the pen. Painstakingly, Diego pushes the door open a few inches, just enough to stick his head through. The immediate hallway is clear. He strains to listen for any shoes squeaking on linoleum, any keys jangling from a belt loop, but the only sound he picks up is the soft hum of the lights overhead. 

There shouldn’t be more than three night guards, and one of them is stationed at the front desk all night. Down the hall and around two corners, there’s a side door that the guards often leave propped open for smoke breaks. If Diego’s lucky, he can avoid the front doors entirely, and no one will even notice he’s gone until breakfast. 

The plan depends largely on Diego’s capacity for stealth - which, honestly, has never been his fortė. It could also be easily derailed by a certain wildcard inmate with no concept of boundaries. Diego had half expected to find her sitting cross-legged outside his door. He can’t decide if it’s more or less worrying that he has no idea where she is. 

After several minutes of no men running at him with needles, Diego emerges fully from his cell, gently shutting the door behind him. He creeps down the hall at an agonizingly slow pace, wishing he had something better to throw than half a broken pen. Unfortunately, the knives the cops took off him the day he got caught are buried in some police station right now. The ones he was able to stash before he was arrested are (hopefully) still under some shrubs outside the Texas School Book Depository. 

At the end of the hallway, Diego pauses to scout around the next corner. He nearly jumps out of skin when a single gunshot shatters the silence. 

He drops to a crouch instinctively, even though the bare hallways offer nothing to hide behind. The stark white lights switch without warning to a pulsing yellow, like some kind of silent alarm. The quiet settles again, amplifying the sound of his heart, pounding hard as an extra shot of adrenaline flies through his veins. 

Diego could swear that shot came from the front of the building. The guard at his desk. Sweat beads on the back of Diego’s neck as he tries to rationalize the situation. They wouldn’t shoot Lila if they caught her, he thinks. There has to be some law about that, even in the ‘60s. They’d tranquilize her, or taze her, or at the very worst put her in a chokehold, but they wouldn’t - 

More gunshots rip through Diego’s train of thought, this time in rapid bursts. They’re coming from the east side of the building, now. The women’s ward. 

Lila’s frantic scream propels Diego into motion. He breaks into a run towards the shots. 

She crashes into him as they both round a corner. “Move, move!” she screams, pressing a bedpan against his chest. 

They’ve made it less than a quarter of the way down the hall when Lila’s pursuers turn the corner. Three of them, Diego catches as he glances over his shoulder, but not the three night guards he’d expected. Three starkly blonde men calmly aiming military-grade guns. 

The hallway has no cover. Zigzagging won’t do any good against three of them. Diego has no weapons, just a broken pen and - 

“Throw it, idiot!” Lila shouts. 

\- and a pretty heavy bedpan. 

Diego whirls around and throws the bedpan like boomerang, knocking the gun out of each man’s grasp. Lila whoops over the sound of misfiring gunshots. Pain shoots through Diego’s side, but he’s too focused on making it down the hall before their assailants recover to care. 

The men don’t speak, to them or each other. Diego hears one of them reload as he and Lila round the last corner. 

“Right here,” he says, pulling Lila towards the side exit. He thanks God that it’s unlocked and propped open like he’d hoped. 

Diego remembers why he’s not religious when he nearly slams into the night guard on his smoke break, listening to blaring country music on a portable radio. 

“What in the hell are you two doin’?” the guard exclaims, startling to his feet. 

Diego knocks him out with a kick to the head. His vision blurs as the wound in his side splits further. He grasps it tight with one hand, grabbing Lila with the other. 

They sprint away from Holbrook under cover of night, stopping only to duck out of sight from patrol cars. Thanks to his flesh wound, Diego’s wheezing by the time they reach an alley suitably far away. 

Would’ve figured you’d be in better shape, Hargreeves,” Lila quips as they come to a stop. Diego ignores the jab, more or less relieved that she’s not completely freaking out under the circumstances. He continues to hide the blood on his side as best he can in the darkness, because surely even Lila has her limit on how much she can deal with in one night. 

“We can’t stay here too long,” Diego reminds her, like he wasn’t the one who needed a break. “They’re going to be looking for us.” 

Lila snorts. “The cops, or those large Scandinavian fellas with guns?” 

Diego takes as deep a breath as he’s able, which isn’t very deep at all in his current state. He scrunches his eyes closed for a moment, trying to shake the dizziness settling over him. 

When he opens them again, Lila’s glaring at him like she’s caught him stealing bacon from her breakfast plate. 

"You good, Diego?” she asks curtly. 

“Hundred percent,” he gasps. 

“How’s the cramp?” she presses, nodding towards the hand pressing into his side. 

Diego turns away from her. “Fine,” he insists. 

He turns back around at the sound of her climbing atop a dumpster. Light from an apartment window illuminates her as she grabs a handful of clothing of a drying line. 

“New clothes. Good idea. Won’t get far dressed like a lobotomy case,” Diego concedes. 

Lila throws a couple shirts in his direction. “I was thinking more for the volcano of blood you’ve got building under your hand, but dress-up works, too.” 

“It’s just a graze,” Diego mumbles. He slumps down against the brick wall and presses a wadded up shirt to the wound while Lila climbs down. 

“Whatever,” she calls dismissively. She lands easily on her feet and makes her way to Diego, who takes a minute to process why she’s suddenly pulling off his shirt. 

“Arms,” she commands. Diego pulls the already bloodsoaked shirt away from his side and lets Lila pull the white cotton top over his head. She appreciatively scans his chest, not the least bit unnerved by the chunk taken out of his side, and hums in what Diego decides is approval before slipping a clean shirt onto him. 

“I could’ve done that,” Diego says lamely. 

“Well, that’s not as fun, is it?” Lila argues, pulling her own shirt off without warning. Diego looks towards the street, figuring that keeping watch is probably more respectful than gaping. 

“Put your pants on,” she says after a minute. Diego turns back to find her wearing a brown overall dress she snagged off the line. 

He stands up and finishes getting changed. While he’s distracted, Lila takes the opportunity to smash a car window. 

“You know how to hotwire?” she calls, before Diego can even react. 

He zips up his pants and presses the extra shirt back to his side. “Of course,” he answers. 

“Great,” she beams. Her eyes flash under the streetlight. “How about you get us out of here before the trio of death catches up?” 

Bringing Lila along was never part of the plan. Then again, neither were gun-wielding men that reminded him all too much of Hazel and ChaCha. 

Diego climbs into the driver’s seat. Lila skips around the back to the other side. 

If they are like Hazel and ChaCha, they’re after him, not Lila. Diego’s the one trying to change the timeline. Maybe it’s better he leaves her here. 

“Whoops,” she giggles, unlocking the passenger side door. “Window was already open.” 

Diego rolls his eyes. Like she’d survive a night out here on her own. 

The car sputters to life as he connects the right wires. 

“Lean back,” he tells her, flicking the headlights on. “Let’s get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! i'll be posting chapter two along with this one, and i'll update as frequently as i can after that :)


	2. November 15: Luther

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A familiar face shows up at Luther's place of work.

Luther knocks back what’s left of his drink, nodding his head idly along to the music playing from the stage. The bar is lively tonight, but nobody’s gotten too belligerent yet. Luther's grateful; he’d rather spend his time mulling over the afternoon’s fight than dealing with drunkards. 

Jack had been pleased with the match, but Luther knows it was sloppy. Letting the challenger get a few hits in was one thing; being slow on the dodge and nearly losing some teeth was another. His father’s voice, even after a year in the ‘60s and a lifetime on the moon, still rattles in his head. _You’re a leader, Number One. There’s no room for error._

Luther isn’t leading much of anything these days, but he still needs to remain employed. He’d also like to keep his teeth in his skull. 

“Hi, Luther.” 

Autumn’s drawl disrupts his train of thought. Luther smiles at her and returns the greeting. She’s his favorite of the bar girls - she offers easy conversation after a day of fighting, and is always the first to point out any bothersome patrons Luther may have missed. 

Speaking of bothersome patrons, a figure at Jack’s table catches Luther’s eye. He can tell by the scrawny man’s wild gesticulation that he’s had a few too many. The cold shoulder Ruby’s giving him is a solid indication he’s not a member of any shared social circles. 

“Who’s the half-wit bothering Mr. Ruby?” Luther asks, switching his gaze back to Autumn. 

The rhinestones on her chest scatter the bar’s dim light. “No idea,” she shrugs, “but he’s been putting away vodka gimlets like they’re gonna run out of limes.” 

“Oh yeah? He give you any trouble?” Luther doesn’t doubt he’ll end up escorting the man out anyway, but he’s always a little less gentle with the customers the girls complain about. 

“Not yet,” Autumn says. She flashes him a grin. “Gave me a once-over and decided he was more interested in trying to pitch vacuum cleaners to Mr. Ruby. Might be more convincing if he wasn’t interrupting himself to wave down another drink every few sentences.” 

Luther shakes his head. “Guess I should go take care of that,” he sighs, pushing himself away from the bar. 

“Reckon you should,” she says brightly. “Maybe check up on that group of sailors for me, after? Real sweet boys, but one of ‘ems been getting a little grabby with Charlotte.” 

Luther heads there first. The men offer a slurred apology and a promise to keep their hands to themselves before eagerly turning back to the show. He catches up with Charlotte, who huffs that she wasn’t even bothered. “Autumn’s something of a nervous Nellie, ain’t she?” she tuts, adjusting the collar of her uniform. She thanks Luther anyway, before she’s waved off to serve another round of drinks. 

By the time Luther gets to Jack’s table, the vacuum salesman seems to have shifted to incomprehensible ramblings about a Bolshevik takeover. He’s on his feet, swaying as he addresses the table. 

Ruby locks eyes with Luther as he comes up behind the man. He can gather from his boss’s expression that he’s a little miffed Luther let this guy go on for so long. 

“Come on buddy, let’s go,” Luther mutters, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

The man refuses the shred of dignity Luther offers him. “Get your hands off me!” he slurs, throwing a wobbly punch that misses Luther’s face by a mile. The momentum of his own swing sends the salesman into a tailspin, right into Luther’s arms. 

“Get him out of here, now,” Ruby orders. 

Luther doesn’t need to be told twice. Easily, he drags the man through the bustling bar, plopping him down on the cement outside. Instead of standing up, the man just leans against an empty telephone booth. 

“Can you get home?” Luther asks, hoping the guy doesn’t hurl this close to the entrance. 

With great effort, the salesman hauls himself upright and grabs the phone. He pats his pockets, then stares at the keypad like it’s foreign technology. 

Luther sighs, digging in his own pocket until he finds a dime. 

“Here,” he offers. The man knocks his arm aside with a grunt. 

Ruby will have even more to complain about if Luther leaves this guy to loiter out here all night. He shoves his arm into the booth, sliding the coin into the slot before the guy’s blitzed brain can catch up. 

Luther returns inside, satisfied, once the man finally dials a number. 

Eventually, Autumn slides up next to him at the bar again, returning a trayful of empty glasses. Luther’s sipping water instead of booze, now, keeping a watchful eye on the floor. 

“You gonna be here tomorrow night?” Autumn asks, bumping her hip lightly against his. 

Luther affirms that he will be. He’s here just about every night the bar’s open. Autumn doesn’t normally work Saturdays, though. 

Autumn answers his unspoken question. “I’m covering Lacy’s next three shifts in exchange for her working Thanksgiving for me,” she beams. “I’ve saved enough to take the bus out to Houston to visit my sister.” 

“She must be pretty great if she’s worth three extra shifts,” Luther jokes. 

Autumn giggles, pausing to slide a list of drink orders to the bartender. “Gosh, I’d never tell her. It’d go straight to that huge head of hers!” She unloads the last dirty glasses from her tray. “I do miss her like the dickens, though,” she sighs. 

Luther nods, staring into nothing. 

“What about you, honey?” she chirps. 

“What about me?” 

“You got any plans for Thanksgiving?” 

Luther shrugs. “Training, probably.” He doubts Jack’s got any fights lined up. “Then I’ll be here, or somewhere else if Mr. Ruby needs me.” 

Autumn tuts. “You really are all work and no play, aren’t you?” Luther shrugs again. “You ain’t got no family near?” she asks earnestly. 

Luther’s shoulders tense. “No. Not near,” he answers tightly. 

“Mr. Ruby seems pretty fond of you, you know,” she says. She thanks the bartender as he starts to load her tray with fresh drinks. “I wouldn't be surprised to find he’s willing to spot you a bus fare. And I think you of all people have earned a day off.” 

Luther remembers the last time he got on a bus to see family. His face burns with the residual embarrassment of being humiliated by his own father. 

“Thanks, Autumn. I’ll keep it mind,” he lies. Anything to get her to drop the subject. 

She smiles sweetly, patting his arm before returning to the tables. 

The clamor of the bar fades to a dull undercurrent in Luther’s mind. He wonders where his siblings might be. He hasn’t spent Thanksgiving with them since they were kids, when Mom would prepare a grand feast that Dad wouldn’t even acknowledge. 

It occurs to him that his brothers and sisters haven’t crossed his mind in days. Maybe even weeks. 

That’s not such a bad thing. He’s moving on, moving forward. 

There’s still a tiny knot of guilt in his stomach, though. 

Charlotte strides up to him, and he presses the feeling away. 

“Found this on the floor,” she states, holding out a well-worn wallet. She flips it open to a faded ID card. “Ain’t this the guy you tossed out not too long ago?” 

Luther squints. It is, though he looks several years younger in the photo. 

“Someone must’ve taken the cash out of it,” she says, her eyes wide with faux-innocence. “And what’s a girl to do with an empty old wallet?” 

Luther chuckles. “He’s probably still passed out in the phonebooth,” he admits. “I’ll go take a look.” He takes the wallet from Charlotte. 

“Thanks, doll.” She smirks, flicking him a quarter. “Enjoy your cut.” 

Luther pockets the change, heading out into the cold night air. The man is indeed still slumped against the phonebooth, but now a small woman is trying to drag him to his feet. 

“Excuse me, miss?” Luther starts, the wallet in his outstretched hand. She turns towards his voice, ignoring the man as he grumbles something from the ground. 

“Sorry, did you say something?” she asks. 

Luther feels his mouth drop open as the wallet plummets to the sidewalk. 

“Oh, I think you dropped something,” she says politely, still trying to heave the man upright. 

“Vanya?” Luther finally manages. He takes another breath, but he can’t come up with any more words. “Vanya.” 

Her eyes grow wide as they meet his, and in the back of his mind, Luther wonders if it’s possible to dodge an energy tentacle. 

Then, her face splits into a smile wider than Luther’s ever seen her wear. She drops the man’s arm, letting him slide back down against the booth. She beams at Luther like he’s the answer to all her prayers. 

“You know who I am?” she practically squeals. 

Luther just blinks at her, unable to process her reaction. He takes a tentative step back, some part of him wondering if misguided excitement could yield the same results as anger. 

“I’ve been putting ads in the paper,” she continues, “hoping someone would recognize me!” 

“”Bout damn time,” the man on the ground interjects. “Sissy won’t be none too happy.” 

“Oh, Carl, sorry,” Vanya rushes, leaning back down to lift Carl to his feet. “Just one second, I’m so sorry,” she says to Luther, once she gets him standing. She slowly helps Carl into the passenger side of her running car. 

“Relax for a second, let me just find out who he is,” Luther hears her say as she shuts the door. Vanya practically runs back over to him, stealing precious seconds away from Luther’s internal meltdown. 

“I can’t believe this, I’d just about given up hope,” she says, the grin never leaving her face. Her eyes are brown again, Luther notices, rather than piercing white. 

“So you haven’t seen the others?” he asks, taking another half-step back. Vanya doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Who are the others?” she asks, tilting her head to the side. She laughs a little. “I guess I should start with, who are you?” 

Vanya was a terrible liar, when they were kids. All Luther had to do was glare at her, and she’d break. Sometimes into tears. 

Luther glares at her, and tries not to think of world-ending energy blasts. 

Vanya’s smile doesn’t even waver. 

“Oh! I haven’t even explained,” she starts, shaking her head a bit. “I had an accident, about a month ago. Can’t remember anything but my name.” 

She looks a bit sheepish when Luther stays silent. “You...you do know me, right?” she prods. 

He could lie. Leave her with the drunk vacuum salesman who’s yelling at her to hurry the hell up from the car window. Go about his life without worrying incessantly that he’ll light the fuse on the apocalypse bomb once again. 

Luther doesn’t know that he’s ever seen Vanya look this hopeful. 

“You’re my sister,” he offers slowly. 

She looks at him in awe. “I have a brother,” she whispers, her hand in front of her mouth. 

“Brothers,” Luther corrects idly. The shouts from the car get more aggressive. 

“Just a minute, Carl!” Vanya calls back. She turns back to Luther. “Brothers?” she repeats. 

“And a sister. Allison,” Luther says softly. He remembers blood spilling from her throat, coating his hands. 

Vanya laughs, euphoric. “I can’t believe I have a sister!” She stares up at the sky, where the moon is shining. “Allison,” she parrots. 

She locks eyes with Luther again. “What’s your name?” 

She’s so small, looking up at him. He remembers hugging her, squeezing her until she passed out. It hurts worse than a punch to the jaw. 

“It’s Luther. Luther Hargreeves.” 

“Luther Hargreeves. Allison Hargreeves. Vanya Hargreeves,” she says proudly. “What about the other brothers you mentioned?” 

Before Luther can answer, the squealing of tires shatters the night’s stillness. 

Vanya spins around, deflating as she watches Carl speed off down the road. “Shit. Shit, Carl! Carl, come back here!” she yells, running a few steps down the pavement. 

He rounds a corner in seconds, and the car’s out of sight. 

Vanya tugs at the ends of her hair, marching into the phonebooth. She picks up the receiver, then groans and places it back on the hook. 

“God, I don’t even have any change. Luther, do you have a dime? Sissy’s probably asleep by now, but maybe I can call a cab or something.” She mutters the last part mostly to herself. 

All Luther has in his pocket is a wadded up napkin and the quarter Charlotte tossed him. “There’s some behind the bar,” he says, heading back towards the building. He holds the door open for Vanya, less out of politeness and more so he won’t have to turn his back to her. 

She thanks him, quickly ducking inside. They walk up to the counter together, and Luther waves down the bartender. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Vanya staring resolutely at her shoes as waitresses pass by. 

Finally, a reaction he recognizes. He guesses this place isn’t really Vanya’s scene. 

Luther acquires two dimes and a nickel in exchange for his quarter. When he turns back towards his sister, Autumn’s there, staring at Vanya with her hands planted on her hips. 

“Well ain’t you just cute as a button,” she fawns, lifting Vanya’s chin up with delicate fingers. “You looking for an application, darlin’?” 

It’s almost comical how red Vanya’s face goes. She shakes her head and sputters a bit in reply. Her glance towards Luther undeniably says, _help._

Autumn follows her gaze. “Didn’t realize you were bringing in recruits, Luther. What, has my charm worn off already?” she teases. 

“She just needed a dime for the payphone. To call a cab,” he explains. 

“Oh honey,” Autumn coos, turning back to Vanya. “What on earth is a tiny thing like you doing wandering the streets this late?” 

“Oh, um, I was picking up the guy I’m staying with,” she starts. Autumn wiggles her eyebrows. “No, no, not like that!” Vanya assures, shaking her head. “He’s- he’s married. I just, I had an accident and I can’t remember anything so they let me stay with them, but then Carl was drunk so I drove out, but then Luther’s here saying he’s my brother, and, well, Carl’s never been a very patient man, so he -” 

Autumn cuts off Vanya’s hurried explanation. “Your brother?” she repeats, like Vanya’s just offered her the best gossip she’s heard all week. 

Vanya takes a breath. “Yes, ma’am, that’s what he said,” she answers. 

“I recall being told you have no family here, Luther,” Autumn says, as entertained as she is confused. 

“I didn’t know she was here,” Luther states simply. He feels like he’s being tried for a crime. 

“It’s been about a month since my accident,” Vanya adds. “And I’ve been staying at a little ranch some ways out of town, so he had no way of knowing where I was.” 

“Well, didn’t you go to the police?” Autumn asks. 

Vanya nods her head. “I did, but none of the missing persons reports matched me.” 

Autumn’s face falls a bit. She addresses Luther when she speaks again, keeping her voice low, as if Vanya’s not right next to them. “Your sister dropped off the map and you didn’t even look for her?” 

“I didn’t even know she was in Dallas!” Luther argues, failing to keep the defensiveness out of his voice. “We weren’t exactly close!” 

The old Vanya would’ve shrugged in silent agreement. This Vanya’s face falls like he’s just slapped her. 

Autumn blinks a few times. Her voice drips with its usual sweetness when she speaks again. 

“I’m sorry darlin’, I didn’t catch your name.” 

Vanya blinks. Luther’s jaw tenses when he realizes her eyes are watery. 

“It’s Vanya,” she answers softly. 

“Vanya, why don’t you take a seat at the counter for just a minute while I chat with your brother. Is that okay?” 

Obediently, Vanya sits down on the nearest stool. Autumn guides Luther away until they’re out of earshot. 

“What in the hell did that woman ever do to you, Luther?” Autumn demands, her tone like a scolding mother. Well, the ones in movies, anyway. Grace wasn’t much for scolding. 

Luther sighs, not even knowing how to begin to explain. “It’s complicated,” he offers stiffly. 

“You want to explain that any further?” she huffs. 

He’d really like to stay friends with Autumn, so he doesn’t blame the future-past end of the entire world on his meek little sister. He just stares at the floor, instead. 

As Autumn exhales, Luther sees some of the fight leave her face. She never stays mad for too long. 

“If she apologized for whatever it is she did,” Autumn poses, her voice soft again, “would you forgive her?” 

Luther thinks for a moment. About all the pain Vanya caused, and about all the pain he caused her before that. 

Luther thinks about the fact that she’s here, in Dallas, 1963. He wonders, for the first time in months, if there’s a real chance he could have a family again. 

“Yeah,” he answers quietly. “I would.” 

Autumn smiles gently. “Poor thing’s offered you the blankest slate you’re ever going to get. You’re smart enough not to waste it,” she winks. 

“Thanks, Autumn.” 

“Anytime, sweetie.” 

They walk back to the bar together, where Autumn bids Vanya adieu as she goes to bus more tables. 

“I’m sorry,” Vanya says, as soon as Autumn’s gone. “I didn’t even consider that we might not have a good relationship.” 

“It’s not that,” Luther insists, even though it kind of is. 

“Would you mind explaining it to me?” she asks, resembling more the tentative girl he always knew. “It’s just, I’ve spent an entire month with absolutely no clue who I am. If I could just get some of the answers from you, I promise I’ll stay out of your hair after.” 

Luther wonders if there’s a way to delicately phrase some of the things Vanya’s done. 

“Remember how I mentioned other siblings?” he asks her. 

“Allison,” Vanya recalls. “And other brothers.” 

“Klaus, Diego, and Five,” Luther provides, leaving Ben unsaid for the time being. “I don’t know where any of them are, either.” 

Vanya tilts her head, prompting him to continue. 

“My place is right around here. If you want to stay for the night, I’ll tell you everything.” She gives him a hesitant smile. “Okay,” she agrees. 

Luther pauses, memories of an apocalypse a year or four decades away filling his skull. “And maybe, after, you can help me find them,” he finishes. 

She nods, her apprehension undercut with excitement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! comments make my day, if you feel so inclined :)


	3. November 16: Diego

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diego brings Lila along on his attempt to kill Lee Harvey Oswald.

The parking lot is virtually empty. Diego watches through the windshield, unfocused, as the sun slowly creeps over the horizon. 

Now that the adrenaline has had a few hours to burn off, he’s exhausted. Lila was able to catch a bit of sleep in the backseat, but Diego sat awake on watch for most of the night. The wound in his side made it impossible to get comfortable, and the fear of gunmen blowing their heads off in the darkness was enough to stave off rest. 

He shifts his gaze to the drug store at the other end of the lot, catching sight of Lila as she hurries through the exit. A plastic bag dangles from her grasp, swaying as she skips towards the car. 

When she's closer, Diego pops open the passenger side door for her. As thanks, she pulls a wrapped pastry from her bra and drops it in his lap. Wordlessly, she pulls the door shut behind her and tears into a pastry of her own. She overturns the bag with one hand, dumping out a small suture kit and a bottle of rubbing alcohol in the space between them. 

Lila moans unabashedly as she chews her breakfast. “God, I was starving,” she says dramatically, going in for another bite. 

Diego’s appetite is nonexistent. The suture kit mocks him from the middle seat. 

“I worked hard for that meal, you know,” Lila jabs, noticing Diego’s stillness. “It’s not easy smuggling pastries in a dress with no pockets.” 

Diego stares at her. “Why didn’t you just buy them with the money from the glove compartment?” 

“Where’s the thrill in that?” Lila deadpans. She rolls her eyes when Diego scoffs at her. “Your stitches were more expensive than you predicted. So we have you to thank for my petty crime,” she says with a smirk. 

Lila finishes her food and wipes her fingers off on her dress. “Should we do this in the backseat, then?” she proposes. 

Diego’s jaw tightens as Lila gathers their meager medical supplies. “Have you ever actually given anyone stitches before?” he wonders aloud. 

Lila shrugs. “I did an embroidery once when I was little, that’s basically the same thing.” 

The knot in Diego’s stomach grows bigger. 

“I’m joking,” she insists, shoving Diego’s shoulder. She hikes up her dress to reveal a short scar running across her thigh. “Look, stitched that one myself. You’ll be fine, lose the sad face,” she orders. 

The notion distracts Diego for a moment. “Why’d you stitch it yourself?” he asks. 

Lila blinks. “Didn’t want my mum finding out. She would’ve…” Lila hesitates a moment, then shrugs her shoulders again. “You know, been worried,” she finishes. 

Diego considers the possibility that she’s lying to try to make him feel better. It’s a bit of a moot point, considering a hospital is out of the question and he’ll never have the willpower to stick a needle into his own skin. Experienced or not, Lila will have to do. 

“Parking lot’s going to fill up if you spend much longer mulling it over,” Lila says with forced nonchalance. 

Diego takes as deep a breath as his injury allows and goes to lay down in the backseat. There’s enough room for Lila to squeeze in and kneel on the floor in front of him. Once they’re both situated, she peels back the lower half of Diego’s blood-crusted shirt. 

The wound is a few inches long, marked by a pink trail where the bullet carved out flesh. Though it's clearly still raw, nothing seems to be actively bleeding. As Diego inspects the gash for any sign of infection, Lila quickly dumps half the bottle of alcohol into it. 

Diego’s head slams back against the seat. He nearly bites through the inside of his cheek trying not to yell. 

“Sorry,” Lila offers, not looking very apologetic at all. “It’s better if you’re not expecting it.” 

She opens the suture kit before pouring some of the alcohol on her own hands. Diego tries to keep his heart rate under control as he watches her carefully thread the needle. He flinches as she moves to get a closer look at his side. 

Lila glances towards his face. “Hold still,” she says, like she’s surprised she had to vocalize such an obvious instruction. 

He nods slightly. The needle glints in the rising sun. Lila moves in again. 

“Wait,” Diego interrupts, shrinking impossibly further towards the backs of the seats. “We don’t have to do this. It gets infected, it doesn’t heal right, whatever. I’ll deal with that when it comes up,” he urges. "They have antibiotics in the '60s, right?" 

Lila sighs in frustration. “If you don’t trust me, Hargreeves, you can always do it yourself,” she challenges, offering the needle to him. Diego shakes his head, a bit more frantic than intended. “It’s not you, I just don’t like -.” He pauses, feeling himself get stuck on the word. “Needles,” he manages, after a moment. 

Tearing his gaze away the offending object, Diego forces himself to study the stains on the car's ceiling. He counts them, waiting for Lila's ridicule to break the silence. His muscles tense with the anticipation of a needle sinking into his skin without warning. 

The suture kit clicks shut. Lila swishes the bottle of alcohol around, gauging how much is left. With a sigh, she asks, “How do you feel about staples?” 

The muscles in Diego’s jaw relax slightly. “What?” 

“If I go nab a stapler from the office supply section,” she explains slowly, gesturing back towards the drug store, “will you let me close up your disgusting wound?” 

Staples in his side don’t sound pleasant, but he would take a hundred of them over a needle. 

“Um, yeah,” he answers lamely. 

Lila nods, poorly hidden exasperation on her face. She awkwardly climbs out of the car, shutting the door behind her. 

* * *

An hour and 10 staples later, Diego parks the car across the street from the Texas School Book Depository. He grips his rolled holster of knives like a security blanket. Thankfully, they’d been right where he’d stashed them before getting arrested, and he was able to collect them without any fuss. 

The sun is shining brightly, not a single cloud in the sky. Diego would have preferred rain - less foot traffic, less potential witnesses. Of course, rain also might’ve meant Oswald calling for a cab. With such perfect weather, the man has no reason not to walk home. If there’s too many witnesses at the Depository’s front door, Diego can always trail him until he gets to a more isolated part of town. 

“This is where you save the president, huh?” Lila squints to make out the letters across the road. “Does Kennedy die of boredom reading high school textbooks?” 

“I told you already,” Diego says, wishing anyone besides himself would take this a bit more seriously. “The building’s just the vantage point. But Oswald works there, and unless his shift has changed in the last two months, he gets off at 3:30 p.m. today.” 

Irritatingly, she chooses to pick at one of her fingernails rather than ask him to elaborate. Diego continues anyway. “Once he walks out those doors, we force him into the passenger’s seat.” 

“I’m in the passenger’s seat,” Lila interrupts, still only mildly interested. 

Diego pauses. “Okay, fine. In the back seat,” he concedes. “You’ll pin his arms, I’m going to cut off his trigger finger.” He quickly scans Lila’s face for any look of horror. Given her expression, he might as well be reading her the phonebook. “Then,” he finishes, “I tell him he’s got 24 hours to exit Dallas.” 

Lila chews on her nail for another half-second, then looks at Diego. “That’s your plan?” she asks plainly. 

Diego makes what he hopes is a sympathetic face. “If you don’t want to watch me cut his finger off, you can turn around once we get him in the -” 

“Why don’t you just kill him?” she blurts. Her eyebrows are knit together in confusion. 

Diego’s not convinced he heard her right. “What?” 

Lila looks at him like he’s a struggling student. “You think this guy is going to shoot the president, right?” she leads. 

“Right,” Diego admits. 

“Fine, so we kill him,” she says, with all the nonchalance of someone discussing, well, anything besides murder. “Use one of your fancy little knives and take out his carotid. Boom, problem solved.” 

He wonders if this is just one of Lila’s jokes that he’s not getting. There’s none of that manic glint in her eye, though. She’s as serious as he’s ever seen her. 

“I’m not going to kill a man before he’s committed a crime,” Diego explains slowly, subtly sliding his knives to the side of his lap furthest from Lila. 

She turns her body towards his, leaning back against the car door. Her legs fold on the seat in front her. “Would you kill him after?” she asks, like she’s giving him a survey. 

Again, Diego is thrown. “What? What good would that do?” 

Lila rolls her eyes. “It’s a hypothetical. If this guy kills the president, do you think he deserves to die?” 

Flashes of childhood missions and vigilante escapades roll through Diego’s mind. He’s killed a lot of people for a lot less. 

“Yeah. I do,” he decides. 

Lila nods, like he’s chosen the correct answer. “If it’s guaranteed that he will kill the president - which it is, according to you,” she reminds him, “- then is there really a difference between before and after?” 

All of a sudden, it feels like he’s talking to Five. Words and ideas, all objectively logical, being thrown at him, while Diego’s mind refuses to put the pieces together. 

“I’m going to cut off his trigger finger,” Diego repeats, through gritted teeth. “That’s the plan.” 

"Okay," Lila holds up her hands in mock defeat. "It's a stupid plan, but sure, that's your plan," she continues. 

“He can’t shoot a gun without a trigger finger!” Diego snaps, losing his cool. 

“What if he’s ambidextrous?” Lila fires back immediately, a smug smile spread across her face. 

Diego freezes. The question feels like every mistake he’s ever made, rolled up and spat back at him. 

Coming home a sibling short after Ben’s last mission. 

Trying and trying and failing and giving up on getting Klaus sober. 

Being held in the air by a life-draining beam of energy, at the mercy of his merciless sister. 

_What if he’s ambidextrous?_

“How do you get through a day?” Lila adds, her voice lilting. 

“Get out,” Diego demands, a cool fury overtaking him. “I can do this on my own.” 

Lila just curls further into the seat. “Dr. Moncton was right, this hero complex is no joke,” she jabs. 

She’s clearly trying to egg him on now, as Lila is wont to do, but Diego can’t help rising to the punch. “That is not what this is about!” he insists, clenching his fist to refrain from reflexively grabbing a knife. 

“You want to prove to daddy that you’re a big success,” she rambles on, feeding off his anger. 

Diego’s voice raises further. “You don’t know anything about me!” 

Three sharp knocks on the window behind Lila’s head cut off her response. She whirls around to find the source of the noise, and in doing so exposes the window for Diego to see. 

The sweaty, stern face of a mustachioed cop stares back at him. Diego leans forward in what he hopes is an inconspicuous manner, trying to hide the exposed wires popping out of the dash. 

Lila cranks the window down, plastering on the smile she always used with the nurses in Holbrook. “Sorry about that, officer. My boyfriend tends to get a bit loud when we chat, but he’s harmless, really.” She pats Diego’s leg without taking her gaze off the cop. Diego slides his holster of knives out of view. 

“Couldn’t care less about your domestic,” the man says, his voice gruff. He holds up a wad of papers. “The plates on this car match one that was stolen last night. Step out of the vehicle, hands above your heads,” he commands. 

The argument forgotten, Diego formulates a plan. He can’t be institutionalized again. Or thrown in jail. Not while Oswald still has all his fingers. 

Lila complies with the officer's order, distracting the man by refusing her right to remain silent. She babbles about the friend of a friend of a friend who sold them this car, how, yes, she did find it a bit odd that it was so cheap, but the Brookfields, they’re very lovely people, she would’ve never suspected they’d stoop so low. 

As soon as the officer’s eyes leave Diego, he lets a knife fly through the open passenger door. He can’t help but feel a sick sort of pride as it defies all laws of physics, twisting and turning around obstacles until it embeds itself into the back of the cop’s right knee. The officer screams, collapsing immediately. Lila grabs the radio off his chest and smashes it under her heel. 

Though he hates to lose one of his precious few weapons, Diego leaves the knife in the guy’s leg. It shouldn’t do permanent damage, where he’d landed it, and he doesn’t want the guy to bleed out before someone finds him. 

He hops out of the car and grabs Lila’s wrist, breaking into a run as he pulls her down the street. 

She wrenches her arm free and keeps his pace. “That was some shot,” she quips, following his lead as he dips into an alley. “Even more impressive than that stunt in Holbrook.” 

“Superpowers,” Diego shrugs. “I’ve told you before.” 

“I just figured you meant you were really good at darts or something,” she admits, checking over her shoulder. 

Diego shakes his head, grasping lightly at the staples in his side. “Not my fault you never believed a word I said,” he gripes. 

“In my defense, we did literally meet in the looney bin,” she shoots back. “Did you believe half the shit I said?” 

“Fair enough.” 

They run further, turning down quiet streets with no destination in mind. 

“So what’s the power, then?” Lila continues, after they’ve started down a small side road flanked with old buildings. “You hit a bullseye every time?” 

“Something like that,” Diego agrees. “I can manipulate stuff in the air, I guess is how I would describe it.” 

“Like bullets?” Lila questions. 

“Once I shoot them in the air, sure.” 

“So why not use a gun?” she asks, incredulous. 

Diego scoffs. “Knives are way more badass.” 

Lila makes a face. 

“And the speed of the bullets makes them harder to control,” he admits, recalling his early years of training. He was still a great shot, but guns just lacked the exact precision he had come to expect. 

Lila hums in understanding. “That’s why you got shot, then?” 

Diego’s run falters a little. Suddenly, he’s hyper aware of the staples tugging his skin together. “What do you mean?” 

“Because you couldn’t curve the bullet fast enough?” she elaborates. 

Shoes squeak against the pavement as Diego stops dead in his tracks. He stares at the dirty asphalt, his mind racing so fast it makes his body slow down. 

He digs a knife out of his holster, pressing it into Lila’s hand. She’s stopped running to stare at him, confused. 

“Throw that,” he says, nodding towards the weapon. “At that wall.” Diego points towards one of the brick back walls of the nondescript buildings. 

“Um, okay,” Lila agrees. She tosses it with surprising velocity. Diego focuses on the knife, on the air around it. It turns 90 degrees in the air - once, twice - before sliding cleanly back into the holster pocket it came from. 

“Yeah, you already had me convinced on the whole ‘powers’ thing,” Lila states blankly. 

Diego ignores her. "I can control things I don't throw," he marvels, looking down at the knife in shock. “I had no idea I could do that." 

Lila laughs incredulously and starts running again. Diego quickly catches up to her. 

“I can not believe you’ve never even tried,” she tells him, finally overcoming her laughter. 

He can’t believe Dad never forced him to. Then again, Dad was never big on silly things like defense, when a perfect offense was right there. 

“It was a lot harder to control your throw than it was to control one of mine,” he mulls aloud. “I would need to train at it, if I wanted it to be dependable in a fight.” 

“Oh, wouldn’t daddy be proud,” Lila teases. 

They come out of the alley on a main street, dotted with storefronts and cafes. When they’re about halfway to the next corner, across from a movie theater and a store displaying TVs, the shrill whine of a police siren pierces the morning air. 

“There.” Lila points Diego towards a small, darkened alcove a few feet behind them. They double back and duck behind an overflowing dumpster. The patrol car pulls over moments later, the flashing light visible from their hiding place. 

Diego hears a car door slam, followed by a man’s voice. “The witness reported seeing them enter the west end of the alley off Carlston. Either they haven’t come out of it yet…” 

A second man finishes the sentence. “Or they can’t have gone far.” 

Lila exhales in frustration. “Brilliant. What do we do now?” she whispers to Diego. 

Absently, Diego realizes why this street seems so familiar. The movie theater, the cafe, the electronics store. The alcove with the dumpster, looking out at all of them. He glances up at the roof of the building behind them. The mess of what he can only assume is photography equipment confirms his theory. 

By some cruel twist of fate, he’s right back where he started. 

Diego peeks his head out. One cop leans against the car, facing the alley down the road, while the other starts to patrol the street on foot. 

He nudges Lila, nodding to the door that enters the back building. They creep over slowly, staying crouched, as deep in the shadows as possible. Lila slides a bobby pin out of her hair, and Diego watches their backs while she works on the lock. 

It gives way in no time at all. Diego’s mildly impressed. They’re met with a stairway that leads up to two doors, one marked as a dentist’s office. 

“Think they take walk-ins?” Lila deadpans. 

Diego’s about to suggest they see if the stairs continue up to the roof, when the dentist’s door swings open. 

A scrawny man in a flannel button-up walks out, a hamper of laundry in one arm and a box of detergent in the other. Diego and Lila freeze at the bottom of the steps, unnoticed, as the man turns to lock his door. 

Diego hopes the dude hasn’t watched the news this morning. If he recognizes them, and Diego has to knock him out, there’ll be nowhere to leave him but the stairwell. 

He turns to Lila. _Be cool,_ he mouths. 

The dentist is halfway down the stairs when he makes eye contact with Diego. 

Laundry spills everywhere, mixing with powdered detergent. The sudden mess is the only reason the man has time to speak before Diego strikes. 

“You,” he starts, his voice trembling. Lila’s face scrunches up as she kicks a pair of rogue boxers off her foot. Diego makes his way up the stairs, trying not to slip on the snowfall of soap. 

His target scrambles backwards, falling backwards onto his hands. “You﹣you’re the alien!” he manages, his eyes blown wide. 

Diego falters, glancing back at Lila to see if he’d heard right. She looks as confused as he does. 

“The one from the alley!” the dentist continues, unprompted. “Please, please don’t hurt me. I didn’t mean any harm with the photographs!” he urges. He’s fully sitting on the stair now, his hands held out defensively. 

The math comes together in Diego’s mind. The blue energy cloud that dropped him from the sky. The elaborate camera setup on the roof he’d never thought twice about. 

Quickly, he makes a decision. “Time traveler, actually. Sorry to disappoint.” Diego reaches out a hand to help the man up. “What’s your name?” 

The man sputters a bit before revealing his name to be Elliott. Elliott accepts Diego’s hand cautiously, like he’s afraid he’s about to be yanked down the stairs. 

“Elliott,” Diego starts, laying on as much charm as he can. “You let us lie low in that nice place of yours, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know about the future. How’s that sound?” 

With eyes still wide as flying saucers, Elliott scrambles to unlock the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay klaus and allison are going to be in this but because they don't cross paths with five for a while, the starts of their stories stay exactly the same without him. i don't just want to rewrite the episodes, so they'll be showing up a bit later! <3


	4. November 16: Vanya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vanya reunites with Sissy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has been edited to hell and back and i'm still not fully happy with it but that's okay!! i'm learning to just post things instead of getting frustrated and abandoning them :)

Rationally, Vanya shouldn’t believe anything Luther’s telling her. 

His stories are increasingly fantastical; each one of them ties an additional knot in her stomach and spurs dozens of branching questions. She’s one of seven adopted children. Technically, she’s Seven of seven, because her name was apparently a number long before it was ever Vanya. Then there’s the fact that all seven of them have superpowers. Actual superpowers, like in Harlan’s comic books. Luther has super strength, which Vanya can believe just by looking at the size of him. Her sister has the far more dazzling ability of being able to convince anyone to do anything. Vanya’s ability is a bit more “explosive,” to borrow her brother’s term. 

“We didn’t even know you had powers until right before…” Luther trails off, glancing towards the open window. “Dad had you on these pills, supposedly for anxiety. Suppressants,” he explains. 

The real kicker is that her birthday isn’t until 1989. One of her other brothers, Five, can time travel. He jumped all of them out of 2019, and then mistakenly (Luther assumes) dropped both Vanya and Luther in the 1960s. After hearing about the white suit Sissy found her in, Luther’s best guess is that Vanya lost her memories the same day she arrived, which means he’s been here a lot longer than she has. 

“In Five’s defense,” Luther grumbles, like he really doesn’t want to concede the point. “It was a Hail Mary. It’s just been so damn long,” he sighs, his bed creaking under his weight. Vanya is perched on a chair across from him, in a pool of moonlight. “Until I saw you, I was convinced I was the only one who fell out of time.” He’s silent for a moment, and Vanya doesn’t know what words to offer. She’s felt a lot in the past month, but with Sissy and Harlan, she’s never really felt alone. 

“You were always Five’s favorite sibling,” Luther continues. There’s no jealousy in his voice, just resignation. “Sometimes I wondered if this was his way of getting revenge, conscious or not.” 

Vanya blinks, feeling lost for the umpteenth time that night. “I don’t understand,” she says softly. “Why revenge? Why send everyone through time?” 

Wind blows through the trees outside. Vanya hears leaves rustling in the darkness, followed by the flapping wings of escaping birds. 

“How are your powers feeling?” Luther asks, something unidentifiable in his voice. He gets up and pulls the window shut. 

She laughs a little. “I told you, I have no idea how to use them. I didn’t even know I had them until you told me,” she shrugs. 

Her brother nods, slowly. “Just,” he pauses, considering. “Let me know if you start to feel too... angry. Okay?” 

Vanya agrees. She listens silently as Luther answers her questions with yet another story, this one about a neglected sister who blows up the moon. 

Before she does that, she blows up a childhood home. And a cage. The one her brother locked her in. 

He was mad at her earlier, Vanya remembers. Outside the bar, there was an unease, a tension, that never left his shoulders. Now, as he recounts a woman with white eyes and life-sucking energy beams, the only emotion on his face is guilt. 

“I’m sorry,” they both whisper, as the story comes to a close. 

Luther shakes his head, not looking up from his hands. “I’ve spent so long blaming you, blaming Five,” he explains. “It’s just easier than facing what I did to you.” 

It’s the kind of confession that can only be heard in the dead of night. Vanya’s forgiveness comes easy. Hearing your memories is different than living them, and Luther’s apology is genuine. 

Her’s is as well, though it’s hard to find words that convey a remorse strong enough for bringing about the end of the world. 

They fall asleep sometime after that, Vanya in the bed and Luther stretched out on a blanket on the floor. 

* * *

It’s practically afternoon when Vanya finally wakes up, her brain still foggy with sleep. Luther, already dressed for the day, is flipping through a newspaper and munching on a comical amount of scrambled eggs. 

“Sorry I overslept,” Vanya apologizes, rolling off the mattress in yesterday’s clothes. “I’m sure you have places to be.” 

Luther shakes his head. “It’s okay. No fight scheduled for today.” 

Vanya nods, still a little off put by the fact that her brother apparently beats people up for a living. Then again, she’s the reason he was dropped in an unfamiliar decade with no job prospects, so she supposes she shouldn’t judge too harshly. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Luther says, gulping down another lump of eggs. “I’ve worked for Jack some time now. He’s got connections all over this city, and more beyond that. If anyone could give us a starting point for the others, it’s him.” 

“Yeah?” Vanya asks, heart swelling at the prospect of getting to meet the rest of her siblings. “He’d do that for you?” 

Luther shrugs. “It’s worth a shot. Asking him to track down everyone would probably raise some suspicions, though.” He frowns, chewing the last bite of his breakfast. 

“Why don’t we start with Five?” Vanya asks, at the same moment that Luther suggests looking for Allison. 

“Sorry, I just meant﹣since you said he was the one who could time travel, and all,” Vanya explains, feeling like she’s failed a test. 

“No, I know,” Luther says. He looks like he wants to say more, but the only sound in the room is the rattling of old pipes in the walls. 

“You know them better than I do,” Vanya concedes, the looming awkwardness prickling her skin. “If you say Allison, let’s start with Allison.” 

Luther glances up, apparently surprised that she’d deferred so easily. “She’s just... more level-headed than Five,” he explains hastily. “And she could rumor a private eye into helping us track down the others, or something. Strategically, she’s our best bet. Time travel isn’t useful until we find everyone, anyway,” he reasons, like a salesman giving a pitch. 

Vanya smiles, smoothing out her bed-head as best she can without a mirror or a brush. “I’m not arguing,” she teases lightly. “I can’t wait to meet my sister.” 

Tentatively, Luther grins back at her. “Ruby’s down in the bar right now, working on some business. I’ll go put a word in with him,” he says excitedly, nearly knocking over the small table as he stands. “Oh, did you want me to grab you some food or something? Are you staying here in the meantime?” 

Vanya could really use a shower and toothbrush. Plus, she’s aching to tell Sissy about her newfound family. Well, maybe just the fact that she has one. Time travel and superpowers may be a lot to lay on her in one afternoon. 

“Do you have a phone I could borrow? I’ll call Sissy to pick me up. I’ll leave you her number so you can let me know when we have news about Allison.” 

Luther gestures to a landline in the corner of the room. Before he leaves, he scribbles his own number on a piece of scrap paper and hands it to Vanya. “Call if you run into anyone else. Or, you know, just if you need anything.” Vanya thanks him, and promises she’ll be in touch. 

Vanya knows Sissy’s number by heart, even though she’s rarely had to dial it herself. Sissy picks up on the first ring, and immediately, Vanya knows something’s wrong. 

“Hello?” The greeting is hoarse, and Vanya can hear sniffling through the receiver. 

“Sissy? What’s the matter?” Vanya asks, suddenly crushed with the guilt of not having called sooner. 

“Vanya?” Sissy all but gasps. “Where the hell are you?” Her voice is coated in worry. 

“I met my brother,” Vanya explains, clutching the phone tighter. “I’m so sorry I forgot to call. I never even meant to stay, but Carl took the car, and I didn’t have change for the payphone, so I ended up﹣” 

Sissy cuts her off, still sniffling. “Carl’s dead,” she says flatly, her voice tight. 

There’s a pause, nothing but the underlying static of the phone and Sissy’s breathing in Vanya’s ear. The words play again in her mind, but she still can’t process them. 

Finally, she exhales. A weak “What?” is all she can manage. 

“Patrol car found him smashed into a tree along one of the dirt roads,” Sissy continues. Her voice is low, but Vanya still hopes Harlan’s not in earshot. “Said they reckoned he died on impact,” she finishes. She sounds hollow. 

Sissy speaks again, breaking the silence Vanya can’t fill. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she says, the words heavy. “I was mighty worried they’d tell me your body was in the seat next to his. Then, when they said there wasn’t no sight of you, I was sure they’d missed you somehow.” 

The room is warm, but Vanya feels goosebumps on her arms anyway. 

“You coming home soon?” Sissy asks, her voice as fragile as Vanya’s ever heard it. 

“I’ll call a cab right now,” Vanya urges, unable to speak above a whisper. “Oh my God, Sissy,” she breathes. The apology catches in her throat. 

Sissy sniffles again, stifling a sob. “Hurry back, then,” she pleads. There’s a click as she hangs up the phone. 

* * *

The door’s unlocked when Vanya arrives. Harlan glances up from where he’s coloring at the table. His record player fills the living room with soft music. 

“Hey, Harlan,” Vanya greets him, unsure of what else to say. She’s not even aware if he knows, yet. 

Sissy rises from the couch, setting an almost empty wine glass down on the end table. Her eyes are puffy and red, but she’s not actively crying. The dark circles under her eyes tell Vanya that she’s been up all night. 

“Sissy,” Vanya starts. She’s pulled into a hug before she can say more. Vanya holds her, smooths her hair out the way she always does for Harlan on a bad day. 

Sissy squeezes her tighter before finally letting go. She turns to her son, still coloring away. 

“Harlan, baby, Vanya and I are going to go chat in mama’s room for a bit, okay?” Sissy says, patting the boy’s shoulder. Harlan holds up the paper he’s working on. The blank sheet is half covered in tiny, multicolored birds. 

Sissy sighs. “They’re beautiful, honey. I’ll leave the record on, and you can finish the whole page, how’s that sound?” 

Harlan picks a new colored pencil out of his box and returns to shading bird feathers. Sissy plants a kiss on the top of his head before leading Vanya towards the back bedroom. 

She collapses on the mattress, pressing herself against the headboard and clutching a pillow to her chest. Vanya sits down delicately on the foot of the bed. She feels, for the first time, out of place in the farmhouse. 

“I told him this morning,” Sissy sighs, answering the question Vanya hadn’t yet asked. “Dumped sugar on his breakfast cereal just the way he likes, as if that was going to soften the blow any,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Told him his daddy’s in Heaven.” She tips her head back, staring towards the ceiling. 

“How’d he take it?” Vanya asks, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Ate his cereal,” Sissy shrugs. Her voice chokes up, just barely. “Sat in the yard all morning, like he was waiting for someone. Threw a fit when I made him come in for lunch.” Vanya’s heart aches. “Finally, I gave him the new colored pencils I’d been saving for his birthday just to calm him down,” she says, laughing humorlessly. 

Vanya nods. In the silence, she can hear the chickens outside, and the muffled record playing in the front room. “And you?” she asks after a moment. “How are you holding up, Sissy?” 

She replies with a noise that’s somewhere between a scoff and a hum. Vanya supposes that’s fair. 

“Will you come sit up here?” Sissy asks instead, breaking her gaze at the ceiling. 

Vanya forces down the blush she feels rising in her cheeks and shuffles up against the headboard. Awkwardly, she relocates a few pillows to the foot of the bed. Sissy maintains a vice grip on the one she’s holding. 

“Can I tell you something awful?” she ventures, her voice thick with emotion. Vanya sees her glance at the doorway, making sure it’s still empty. 

“You can tell me anything,” Vanya answers truthfully. She lays a hand in the space between them. Sissy moves her own hand, squeezing Vanya’s fingers instead of the pillow. 

Tears prick the corners of her eyes as she works out the best way to word her thoughts. Vanya’s first impulse is to wipe them away. Instead, she waits, and pretends not to notice. 

Sissy inhales sharply, looking down at the blankets as she speaks. “That policeman told me my husband was dead,” she says, her voice shaking slightly. “And the first words out of my mouth were, ‘What about Vanya?’” 

Vanya feels hot tears well up in her own eyes. She flips over the hand Sissy’s squeezing, so she can squeeze back. 

“Ain’t that just awful?” Sissy whispers, not meeting Vanya’s gaze. 

Vanya scoots closer, until their clasped hands lay half on each other’s thighs. Sissy’s head falls to her shoulder, and heavy teardrops start to soak Vanya's sleeve. 

“It’s not awful,” she says, biting her cheek to keep from crying herself. “You were in shock. It’s not awful.” 

Sissy shakes her head. Her curls brush the side of Vanya’s face. “All night, I stayed awake. Sitting by that damn phone, wondering when they would call and tell me they’d found your body out in that field.” A sharp sob tears Vanya’s heart in two. “You thrown through the windshield, Vanya. That was all I could think about.” 

Vanya holds her while she cries. Strokes her hair, whispers that everything’s okay when it’s so clearly not. They stay there like that, the air dense with unspoken feelings, until Harlan comes through the door with his finished bird drawing. 

* * *

Later that night, after Harlan’s already been put to bed, Vanya makes tea. Sissy’s been quiet most of the evening, even during the transient bouts of tears. She’s sitting against the headboard of her bed again, this time with a pillow behind her. Vanya plops down next to her, pressing a warm mug into her hands. 

“So, you found your brother,” Sissy leads. She sips her tea slowly, exhaustion still carved in her face. Vanya doesn’t know how she’s found the energy to be interested. 

“Yeah. Well, he found me, I guess,” she affirms. She tries to recover the excitement of having found her family, hoping to offer Sissy a moment of respite. 

“What’s he like?” 

Vanya shrugs. “Twice my size. Maybe three times, actually.” 

A smile pulls at the corners of Sissy’s lips. “That ain’t none too hard.” 

Laughing feels wrong, but it escapes Vanya anyway. “He was nice,” she continues, purposely leaving the details vague. “Let me stay the night, and gave me his number in case I need anything. Stayed up all night answering the questions I had about myself.” 

Sissy nods politely, drumming her fingers against her mug. “Well, I’ve gotta know,” she says, her teasing tone not quite reaching her eyes. “Is there some husband and a white picket fence eagerly awaiting your return?” 

Vanya shakes her head. She’s not sure how to explain the fact that she’s effectively homeless. 

Sissy eyebrows knit in question. “You were still living with your folks, then?” 

“By myself, according to my brother,” Vanya admits. “He doesn’t know where, though. Apparently we weren’t all that close.” She swallows a gulp of tea. Not technically a lie. 

Sissy hums in response, surprise written on her face. “Well, you know you’re welcome here as long as you like,” she tells her, not for the first time since Vanya’s been staying in the guest bedroom. 

Pushing time travel and superpowers and missing siblings from her mind, Vanya imagines a life here, on the farm outside of town. Days playing with Harlan, nights laughing and drinking with Sissy. No missing persons ads to scour. No uncomfortable silence when Carl makes a crude joke. 

She feels a bit guilty for thinking that last part. Carl was an asshole sometimes, but he didn’t deserve what happened to him. 

Still, there’s some part of her, buried deep down with her memories and her apocalyptic powers, that can’t help feeling maybe Sissy’s better off. 

“I know Harlan would love it if you stayed,” she adds absently, as if Vanya needs convincing. She stares into her cup of tea. “You’re so good with him, you know?” 

“Luther told me I play the violin,” Vanya recalls. “I could save up for one. Maybe Harlan would enjoy live music as much as his records,” she suggests. 

Sissy smiles in agreement. “I bet he would.” 

The silence between them is strangely serene, the day’s events bleeding into the background. 

“You think you’ll stay then?” Sissy asks after a moment, sounding as if Vanya’s promised her the moon and stars. “Don’t want to go looking for that old place of yours?” 

Vanya waves her hand through the air. “I guarantee this one’s better, anyway,” she says, feigning nonchalance. 

Sissy twists around, criss-crossing her legs so she’s facing Vanya straight on. “Have I told you yet how glad I am that you’re okay?” she asks, full of conviction. 

Vanya feels her cheeks go red at the statement. She nods, then sets her tea on the nightstand before shuffling around to mirror Sissy’s position. 

Sissy places her hand on Vanya’s knee, the other still grasping the mug in her lap. 

“Relief doesn’t begin to describe it, Vanya,” she continues. Her eyes, free of tears, meet Vanya’s own. 

“I’m never meant to scare you.” She’s lost track of how many apologies she’s given today, but she’s meant them all. 

“I know,” Sissy reassures her. She lifts her hand to brush a strand of hair from Vanya’s face. “I know you didn’t.” 

Vanya's face burns. Sissy’s hand drops to her shoulder, and rests there. She swears she can feel the pulse in each of Sissy’s fingertips. 

A series of slow, imperceptible movements, and Sissy’s forehead is against Vanya’s own. 

The silence is deafening, now. 

“Tell me to stop,” Sissy mutters, barely audible above the blood rushing in Vanya’s ears. 

In that moment, every sound that breaks the quiet is overwhelming. A grass-rustling gust of wind. The thud, thud, thudding in her chest. The whir of the ceiling fan. A car on the road outside. Sissy’s breathing. 

Vanya feels like she’s about to explode, in the very best way possible. 

It takes everything in her not to bridge the gap between them. She would hate herself, she knows, if Sissy did something she’d regret. 

“Sissy,” she whispers, like they’re kids at a sleepover. Gently, she explains, “Sissy, this might just be grief.” 

“It should be,” Sissy admits quietly. The statement hangs in the air, and she breaks away to place her mug on the bedside table. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?,” she continues. Her eyes beg Vanya for answers. “I should be weeping and wearing black, and instead I’m stuck on this god-awful, nonsense idea that maybe my life could turn into something I actually enjoy living.” 

Vanya leans forward so fast, she accidentally smashes their noses together. Quickly, Sissy’s lips find hers, and a soft hand pulls through Vanya’s hair. The thud, thud, thud, of her heartbeat swells, louder and louder and－ 

THUD. THUD. THUD. 

The women snap apart in shock. The lightbulbs overhead burst into tiny shards, leaving only the dim light from the hall. The banging on the front door sounds again, three sharp knocks, just as loud as the first. 

Sissy ignores the sparking light fixture entirely, jumping off the bed to grab the rifle from her closet. “Who in the hell would be here at this hour?” she whispers sharply. 

“Maybe it’s the police?” Vanya wonders aloud. Her whole body is warm, and her brain feels scattered. “More information about the accident?” 

“Pretty open and shut case,” Sissy argues, staring at the bedroom doorway. 

A gunshot shatters the night, far away from Sissy’s rifle. Vanya leaps off the bed and hears the front door being kicked in, the lock no longer an issue. Footsteps echo through the house, each one building the pressure in Vanya’s chest. _Sound,_ she remembers Luther saying. _Your powers come from sound._

“Shit, Harlan!” Sissy gasps, running towards the hall. Vanya’s right on her heels, kicking herself for not figuring out how to use her powers before now. Adrenaline tears through her veins as they dash into the living room. Someone has flicked on the light. A milkman raises a military-grade gun at the sight of them, just as another shot rings out from the other end of the house. 

“Harlan!” Sissy shrieks. The milkman fires, and with reflexes Vanya wasn’t aware she had, she pulls Sissy to the ground in the nick of time. 

Without hesitation, Sissy pulls her own trigger, blind firing at their assailant. The trigger does nothing but click pathetically, and Vanya’s stomach drops as she realizes the bullets are back in the closet. 

The milkman calmly lines up another shot, directly at Vanya’s head. Sissy screams again and chucks her rifle at him, but it buys them no more than a few seconds. 

Two more men emerge from the back of the house, wearing long overcoats in lieu of disguises. They raise their weapons as well, faces emotionless as they line up their shots. 

Sissy wails for her son, and Vanya absorbs it all, until the pressure in her chest threatens to pull her apart. The guns fire, and the world flashes white. 

The gunmen fly backwards, two of them tearing straight through the kitchen table. The third shatters a lamp, plunging them all into darkness. Grabbing Sissy’s arm, Vanya sprints for Harlan’s bedroom. 

She almost steps on him where he lies, right inside the doorway. His eyes are blown wide, and his hands are turning red where they clutch his stomach. Sissy scoops Harlan up, holding him tight to her chest, whispering empty promises into his hair. 

Frantically, Vanya pries the bedroom window open, panicking as a set of thundering footsteps grow closer. She rushes back to the door, sending out another blast of energy just as the milkman shoots at Sissy’s back. This blast, she holds in the air, which feels akin to how she imagines it might feel to stop a train in its tracks. The man fires at the barrier again, but the bullets dissolve on impact. 

“Run!” Vanya gasps, not taking her eyes off the door. The other two lackeys reappear, one of them sporting a giant sliver of table in his thigh. He seems relatively unaffected, and takes to trying to shove the butt of his gun through the energy field. 

Sissy ducks out the window, a limp Harlan in her grasp. One of the gunmen takes notice, and turns to head back down the hall. 

Vanya explodes. A scream escapes her as she lets the energy launch forward, lighting the hallway up like day. The house shudders violently as the bodies crack against the walls. 

Dizzy and drained, Vanya climbs through the window into the yard. Her knees nearly give out as she realizes the family car was crushed against a tree the night prior. 

Then, headlights flood the driveway. Sissy’s sitting in the front seat of a milk truck, starting the engine and calling desperately for Vanya. 

Vanya hoists Harlan onto her lap as she scrambles into the truck. Sissy peels off down the road before any of their attackers have a chance to exit the house. 

The milk truck groans in protest as Sissy presses the gas to the floor. She’s white-knuckling the steering wheel, but her hands are coated in slick red. The muttering doesn’t stop, and Vanya’s not even sure she’s aware she’s doing it. 

Blood bubbles up from the hole in Harlan’s abdomen, running into Vanya’s lap no matter how hard she presses her hands into it. The boy’s chest barely rises with each breath, and his skin has turned an awful shade of pale. Some buried memory reminds her that kids tend to bleed out faster than one might expect. 

She pulls Harlan’s wrist to his stomach, keeping track of his pulse while she tries to stem the bleeding. 

By the time Sissy screeches the milk truck to a halt in the hospital parking lot, it’s frighteningly weak. 

Vanya’s senses start to fail her as she stumbles into the emergency room lobby, Harlan cradled against her chest. The copious amount of blood turns heads immediately, and Vanya is distantly aware of a weight being removed from her arms. 

There’s bright lights, she thinks, but her vision is starting to dissolve around the edges. Urgent voices surround her, but she’s too exhausted to make out what they’re saying. 

She blinks, and her head is on a pillow. Something sharp sticks into her skin. A steady beeping cuts through the fog in her brain before the world goes silent and dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally this was supposed to be the "vanya heals harlan" chapter, but vanya is so godlike as it is, i felt it was really weird that they gave her that power, so i ended up going a different direction with it! hope that's okay!


	5. November 17: Lila

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lila runs late for a meeting with her mother.

If not for the fact that she could feel her own eyelids drooping, Lila would think that going without sleep was another one of Diego’s superpowers. 

It’s nearing one in the morning. Lila is curled into the side of Elliott’s horribly understuffed couch, resting her chin in one hand, twirling one of Diego’s knives with the other. He’s standing on the opposite side of the room, shaking his head and bouncing on his toes in an obvious attempt to stay awake. 

“Again,” he calls, for what must be the thousandth time today. Even Elliott’s grown bored with the superhero of the future. Lila can hear him snoring down the hall. 

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” she calls back, more taunting than caring. She lowers her voice for the sake of their host. “You haven’t slept since Holbrook.” 

She doesn’t even need to look up to know he’s rolling his eyes. 

“They’re not landing anywhere near me,” he huffs. Sweat drips down his forehead as he gestures weakly to the empty space beside him. “Just keep aiming over there.” 

Lila flings the knife at Diego’s abdomen instead. She snorts as his reflexes fail him, and curves it away at the last minute, letting it just shred the side of his shirt. 

The knife clatters to the ground behind him. Lila tries to hide her smugness as he blinks, clearly surprised to not be impaled. 

“Go to sleep,” she insists. “You’re getting worse at this, not better.” 

Diego glares at her, running his fingers over the tear in his shirt. “It’s not a game, Lila,” he snaps, snatching the knife off the ground. Any threatening aura he’d been hoping to achieve is diminished by the sunken bags under his bloodshot eyes. “Kennedy will be here on‐” 

“‐the twenty-second,” Lila groans, dropping her head back over the arm of the couch. “Yes, Diego, you’ve mentioned.” 

“Which leaves me less than a week,” he continues, undeterred, “to figure out how to change the trajectory of a bullet from who knows how far away.” 

Lila digs her knuckle into her temple, trying to beat back the headache creeping across her skull. She wishes they could have this conversation in the morning, after she’s spoken with her mother. Saving an assassinated president seems like the exact opposite of what she should be doing, but then again, no one bothered to tell her why she’s keeping a temporal anomaly alive in the first place. For all she knows, the Commission’s decided to go down a new path, and Diego’s daddy issues are the key to making it all happen. 

He collapses on the couch next to her, his face tight with frustration. It’s almost cute, the intensity with which he’s glaring at the knife in his hand. 

God, she’s tired. 

“If you go to sleep now,” she proposes, trying not to sound like she’s begging, “in the morning we can take a bus to the middle of nowhere and practice with a real gun.” 

Diego lifts his head to face her, his eyebrows creased. “I haven’t even perfected the knives yet. And where the hell are we going to get a gun?” 

“We’re in Texas,” she deadpans, leaving _in the sixties_ unspoken. “They’re not too hard to come by.” 

He’s silent at that. Lila keeps her mouth shut, crossing her fingers that he’s finally about to crash. 

“You can go to bed,” he says instead. It takes Lila real effort not to strangle him. “Sorry I kept you up so late.” 

The apology sounds foreign in his voice. “It’s nothing,” she mutters. He doesn’t look at her. 

Slowly, Lila unfolds her legs and pushes herself off the sofa. She stands there for a minute, staring down at him in silence, waiting for him to break. 

Diego flips his knife a few times before finally meeting her eyes. Instead of looking away, Lila sticks out her hand. 

“Come on,” she commands. She can’t tell if it’s a character choice or sleep deprivation, but she hears herself giggle at Diego’s bewildered expression. She leans down to grasp his wrist, her fingers covering that stupid umbrella tattoo. 

“Uh, I can‐” he stammers, as Lila leads him to the apartment’s guest bedroom. “I’ll just sleep on the couch.” 

He won’t, though, is the problem. Maybe he’ll close his eyes, but the second Lila tries to slip out the front door, he’ll be up and aiming a knife at her back. 

She drops his wrist and falls onto the mattress, leaving Diego standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed. “I’m not a perv,” she teases, rolling over all the way to the left edge of the bed. “Promise, I’ll stay on my side and everything.” 

He laughs at that, in the silent way he usually does, because god forbid anyone think Diego Hargreeves let his guard down. “I know, but I should be lookout anyway, in case those guys‐” 

“Hey, Diego?” Lila interrupts, sitting up on her knees to push her face closer to his. 

He blinks at her, keeping his hands at his sides. “Yeah?” 

She widens her eyes, and tightens the muscles in her face that make them water. Gently, she reaches forward and takes each of Diego’s hands in her own. She stops short of jutting out her bottom lip, because she’s desperate, yes, but she still has some self-respect. 

“In the last 36 hours, I broke out of a mental hospital, three assassins tried to kill me, I performed amateur surgery in the backseat of a stolen car, and I was an accessory to the assault of a police officer,” she whispers, a crazed smile spread across her face. “Oh, and also, time travel is real. And superpowers.” She pauses, letting a tear roll dramatically down her cheek. The smile on her face collapses as she caps off her performance. “At least, I think. I don’t have the greatest track record for being able to determine what’s real, do I?” 

Diego brushes the tear off her face, and the way Lila’s heart speeds up is a true testament to her acting prowess. 

“Maybe, after all of that, Diego, I don’t want to be alone tonight.” 

He nods, and squeezes the hand he’s still holding. 

“It’s real,” he offers weakly. “It’ll be okay.” 

Lila smiles to hide her gritted teeth. “Get in the fucking bed. Please.” 

He does. 

It’s a strange feeling, waiting for Diego to fall asleep. She feels like she’s breathing too loud, and she definitely should have settled facing him instead of the wall, so she could gauge when to make her escape. Every time Lila starts to think he’s been quiet for long enough, the mattress creaks as he tosses and turns again. 

Lila has nearly drifted off herself by the time Diego’s breathing becomes regular. Carefully, she begins to pull back the blankets she’s covered in, and tries not to think about how incredibly late she must be at this point. 

A gasp catches in her throat as Diego rolls over, unconsciously pressing himself against her side. She freezes, with the blankets halfway off her body and her right shoulder trapped under Diego’s head. 

Minutes tick by as Lila wills her captor to roll over again. Because he’s a stubborn prick, he doesn’t move at all, and instead starts to drool on her shoulder. Lila berates herself for not stealing one of those giant tranquilizer needles before their prison break. 

With growing impatience, she finally decides to just rip off the band-aid. In one motion, she swings herself off the bed, so quickly the mattress doesn’t even creak. The only sound is a voice, muffled against the bedsheets. 

“Where’re goin’?” Diego mutters, slurred and semi-coherent. His arm flops to the side, landing where Lila just was. 

“Bathroom,” Lila whispers, before he can open his eyes. He doesn’t respond, pulled under sleep once again, and she breathes a sigh of relief. 

* * *

It’s not a long walk to her mother’s hotel room, but by the time Lila gets there, her arms are prickled in goosebumps anyway. 

The Handler is perched on an ornate couch, fork in hand, with a plate of half eaten pancakes on a table in front of her. Despite the hour, her hair and makeup is pristine as always. She’s wearing a long, yellow coat patterned with flowers, with a cloth napkin draped over her lap. 

“Hey, mum.” Lila grins, eager to catch up with her mother after two months apart. “Sorry I’m late.” 

“Oh, darling, did you not think to pull on a coat before walking around in the dead of night?” the Handler tuts, setting down a forkful of pancakes. Lila shrugs, like she hadn’t even noticed a difference. Her mother scans her up and down and smiles, but doesn’t move from the sofa she’s sat on. “Sit down, your food’s nearly gone cold.” 

Lila obliges, pulling a chair up to the small marble table. She breaks off a small piece of bacon and pops it in her mouth while her mum floods her plate with more syrup. 

“It feels like forever since I’ve seen you,” Lila voices, filling the space with small talk. “Hargreeves took so long, I thought I might never get out of that place. If I’d had to sit through one more group therapy session, I think I would’ve genuinely lost my mind,” she jokes. Half-jokes. 

Her mum presses her lips together tightly. Sympathetically. “I did warn you, this job is a titch more difficult than shooting an unsuspecting gardener. But you managed, didn’t you?” 

Lila nods, a bit too aggressively. “Of course I did,” she affirms. “And I can manage whatever the next step is, too.” She takes a bite of pancake, and it tastes a little like sand. 

Her mom smiles at her like she’s an amusing puppy. “Good. Surely Diego's realized by now that the rest of his ragtag team is sprinkled throughout 1963 Dallas, yes?” 

The pictures on Elliott’s wall had confirmed it, minus the Commission’s Most Wanted. Lila was hardly surprised when Diego had more or less ignored the discovery in favor of focusing on his plot to kill Oswald. 

He had delicately explained the Commission to her (with maybe 30% accuracy) and pieced together that the three men who’d hunted them at the asylum were probably trying to kill him before he prevented the Kennedy assassination. 

_“I don’t need my siblings involved in that again. I’ll find them when it’s safe. After I’ve rescued the president,” he tells her._

_Lila can’t help but scoff. “So, it’s too dangerous for the team of literal superheroes, but it’s fine for me to hang around. Do they have even lamer powers than you?” she jokes._

_Instead of biting back at the insult, Diego’s shoulders deflate. “Look, I’m sorry I got you tied up in this,” he says, his voice far too soft for Lila’s liking._

_Sincerity is awkward on him. She tries to break the tension. “No worries, I like a little ‐”_

_He cuts her off. “But I’m not going to let them hurt you, okay?”_

Lila pulls herself back to the present. “Yeah, he knows,” she tells her mother. “He’s a little put off on finding them since we’ve currently got Commission heavies on our tail. Who, by the way,” she adds, maintaining the nonchalance in her voice, “did not seem too concerned about hitting me in the crossfire.” 

Her mother quirks an eyebrow. “He knows they’re Commission?” she asks, vaguely intrigued. 

“Even without the masks, the M.O. is pretty similar to Hazel and Cha Cha,” Lila presumes. 

The Handler’s fork clinks against her plate. “Does he suspect you?” she asks, searching Lila’s face. 

A laugh bursts from her throat. “You’re giving him way too much credit,” she assures. “He has no idea I’m anyone but a mental patient.” 

Her mother nods, and Lila tries to work out the words for the thought wriggling in the back of her mind. “The assassins, though,” she starts carefully, picking absently at her fingernail. “ _They_ know I’m Commission, right?” The question is coated in more optimism than it deserves, Lila knows. She remembers the bullets whizzing past her in an otherwise empty hallway. 

Somewhere in the room, a clock ticks by the seconds. The quiet makes Lila feel fidgety. It’s harder to control now that she’s been playing it up for two months. “I mean, they look like outside hires,” she blurts. “Is it possible they didn’t read through all of the intel?” 

Her mother painstakingly chews another bite of food, holding up a finger to signal for Lila to wait. Regardless, the question pressing against her skull flies off her tongue without warning. “And if I’m meant to protect Diego, why is it we sent a separate team out to kill him, anyway?” 

Gently, her mother lays her fork down. She dabs at her lips with a napkin, unhurried. Only scraps of her pancakes remain, while Lila’s food still lays virtually untouched. 

“Remind me, dear. Did I not make it clear that this would be a more complex assignment than your others?” the Handler asks, pulling out a hand mirror and a tube of her signature red lipstick. She touches up her face as Lila simultaneously bristles and flushes at the dismissal. Once she’s satisfied, she turns back and huffs at Lila’s face. “Oh, don’t look so glum. You’re perfectly safe, little one. You could take those Swedish fools in a fight any day.” 

“So they were trying to hit me!” Lila exclaims, sitting up straighter. 

“So high strung,” her mother hums, sliding back a stray piece of hair from Lila’s face. “That Hargreeves boy rubbing off on you?” 

“Why?” she demands, ignoring the remark. The strand of hair falls right back down. 

She doesn’t miss her mum’s eye roll as the woman goes to make herself a second mimosa. “I wasn’t around for your first word, but I would bet my whole pension that was it,” she mutters lightly, squeezing Lila’s shoulder as she passes. 

Lila drops her head to hide her frustration. She pulls on a loose thread and rips a hole in her chair’s upholstery. 

After a few moments, the Handler sits back on the couch across from her. Lila raises her chin up before her mum can make a comment about her sulking. 

The Handler sips her drink, getting up once to add more champagne. Eventually, she clears her throat. “At this moment in time, the Commission board and I desire slightly different outcomes,” she states, her tone cool and even as always. 

The clock _tick, tick, ticks_ as Lila deciphers the claim in silence. It doesn’t take her long to realize she’s two months into committing treason and hadn’t even known about it. 

Her mum sighs from across the table. “See, Lila, this reaction is exactly why I thought it best not to tell you ‐” 

“It’s fine,” Lila urges hastily, working through a hundred thoughts at once. “I mean, really, what did I have at the Commission besides you, anyway? I can do this,” she assures her. 

The Handler chuckles. “Oh, sweetheart, we aren’t leaving the Commission. On the contrary, we’re _helping_ them,” she insists. With a wave of her manicured hand, she adds, “They’ll never need to find out the specifics.” 

Lila nods slowly in agreement, confused as ever, but wary of searching for more information. “Why don’t I just get the jump on the heavies, then? If you have a location, I can take them out before they cause more trouble,” Lila strategizes. 

“That puts you on their radar,” her mum counters, pausing to sip her drink again. “Stooges 1, 2, and 3 may not recognize you, but someone at the switchboard might. Besides, I’d like them alive.” 

“Alive?” Lila parrots blankly. 

“I believe they’ll prove very helpful when it comes to dealing with Number Five,” she explains. 

The one missing picture. “Is that my next job?” Lila ventures. “Kill Number Five when he makes it to 1963?” She pauses, trying to recall the current date. “When does he make it, exactly?” 

“Patience,” her mother says, an order disguised as a suggestion. “Five won’t be an issue for you.” Lila’s jaw tightens at the idea of someone else being trusted with the job, but she holds her tongue. “Your job is to ensure that the Hargreeves, the ones presently in 1963, live through the next eight days to see the 25th of November.” 

Lila exhales through her nose. Two months trapped in a nuthouse, just to trail around five dysfunctional idiots for a week. When 80% of the group hasn’t even been tracked down yet. 

_Why the 25th of November?_

_Why do we want them alive if the Commission wants them dead?_

_Why is Number Five, the one her mother holds a personal vendetta against, nowhere to be found in this ridiculous plan?_

Lila shoves a cold strip of bacon into her mouth. The clock ticks louder than her chewing. 

Her mother passes her a napkin. “Are we clear?” she asks, smiling sweetly. 

Lila nods once, returning a forced smile of her own. “Crystal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took a minute to update - midterms, life, etc. also, i know it seems like this conversation with lila and the handler doesn't comply with the canon at all, but fear not, it'll all make sense later. thanks for reading! <3


	6. November 17: Luther

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luther and Vanya reunite with a couple lost siblings.

When the phone finally rings, Luther nearly yanks it out of the wall, he picks up so quickly. 

He hadn’t been concerned when his first few calls went unanswered. It was relatively early, after all, when Jack had slipped him the piece of scrap paper scrawled with Allison’s Dallas address. He’d given up after an hour or so, unwilling to wait for whatever hour Vanya was rolling out of bed nowadays. 

Her place was across town, so Luther had taken the car Jack had gifted him a while back. He’d been too embarrassed at the time to admit he had no idea how to drive a stick, but he’d had a couple lessons from Autumn since then. The drive to Allison’s house was probably the longest one Luther had taken since being marooned in time, and he was pathetically proud when he made it without issue. 

His good mood was short-lived. Nobody had come to the front door, regardless of how loudly Luther knocked. 

As neighbors had started peeking through curtains and stepping out on porches under the guise of collecting the morning paper, Luther had resigned himself to coming back later. He doubted his sister would be pleased to find herself at the center of suburban gossip. 

By the time the phone rings, he’s been back in his tiny brick apartment for hours, intermittently calling the number Vanya had left. A vague, incomprehensible sense of dread had permeated the air around him as morning turned to afternoon, and the idea of a sleeping household became less and less believable. 

“Hello?” Luther answers automatically, breathing a sigh of relief when he hears his sister’s voice. 

“Luther?” she replies. There’s audible bustling in the background, which doesn’t match up with the quaint farmhouse Luther had envisioned from her stories. 

“Where the hell have you been all morning?” he asks, worry replaced by irritation. “You knew I was going to call.” 

Muffled voices shout at each other from Vanya’s end of the line, and the alarm bells in Luther’s head start kicking on again. She talks over them. 

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes, sounding just like the kid version of herself that Luther remembers. “Something happened. I’m in the hospital.” She pauses for a breath, and continues before Luther can decide which of twenty questions to ask. “I’m okay, I think. But I’m confused. And scared.” 

It’s one of the most emotionally vulnerable things Luther has ever heard out of any of his siblings. Which, okay, is not saying a lot. 

"Can you come get me?” Vanya asks numbly, not acknowledging the shocked silence on Luther’s end of the line. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he babbles awkwardly, leaving everything unasked for the time being. “Which hospital?” 

“The one on the east side. Presbyterian, I think.” 

Luther assures her he’ll be there soon before hanging up the phone. 

It’s a miracle he doesn’t get himself pulled over on the drive there. Or hit. He’s in such a rush, he stalls the car out twice on the way. 

He finds Vanya sitting on a bench in a little garden area a few hundred feet from the main entrance. She’s slowly scanning her surroundings, but stops once she catches sight of her brother. 

“Are you okay?” Luther asks her, despite seeing no visible injuries. She’s clearly been admitted, though. The thin cotton shirt and one-size-fits-all sweatpants she’s wearing are evidence of that. 

Vanya nods, throwing one last glance over her shoulder before returning her gaze to Luther. “You were mad at me,” she muses, “when we first found each other.” It’s a statement rather than an accusation. 

Luther balks for a moment, then answers reflexively, “I was mad at myself.” He shrugs, not understanding why it matters. 

Vanya shakes her head slightly, like he’s deliberately missing the point. “What didn’t you tell me?” she asks, in a tone that says she’s already discovered the answer. Met with confused silence, she elaborates, with audible frustration. “Who else is mad at me, Luther?” 

He stares down at her, perplexed. Allison had forgiven her before the world had even ended. Klaus was never invested enough to be mad in the first place. Five couldn’t be angry with Vanya if his life was at stake, no matter how hard he sometimes pretended to be. Diego ‐ 

Alright, Diego is probably pissed. But Diego gets pissed at butterflies and babies. Luther doesn’t see what any of that has to do with why Vanya’s wearing hospital clothes. 

“Nobody’s mad,” he insists, lowering himself onto the bench beside his sister. It creaks under his weight. “Vanya, fill me in here,” he pleads, looking her over again to see if he missed anything obvious. “What happened?” 

“Three guys with guns broke into the house last night,” she says quietly. The numbness in her voice doesn’t match the words. “They shot Harlan,” she adds, her voice cracking on the boy’s name, “and they tried to shoot Sissy. But it was me they really wanted, I know it was. Because what the hell did Sissy and Harlan ever do to anybody?” She hisses the last question, and Luther could swear the wind picks up. 

“Shit,” Luther breathes. “Is he…?” He trails off, not brave enough to guess one way or the other. 

“He’s out of surgery. The doctor said he’s ‘cautiously optimistic’ he’ll make a full recovery.” The dread in Vanya’s voice smothers the relief. Her fists are clenched tightly in her lap. 

“That’s...good,” Luther stammers. The attempt at comfort is grating, even to his own ears. He quickly changes the subject. “Three guys, you said? Like, ski-masked home invaders, or‐?” 

Vanya cuts him off, desperation mixed with short-fused anger. “They were professionals. I mean, unnaturally strong, with military guns. Tried to murder us without saying a fucking thing,” she snaps. 

The rustling of the trees around them grows steadily louder as the wind speed increases. He wants to give her some answers, but aside from a few pissed off gamblers betting on the wrong fighter, no one in the 60s has given Luther any trouble. The last time he’d fought for his life was back at the concert hall in 2019. 

In retrospect, the dots take an embarrassingly long time to connect. 

“The Commission,” he gasps, his stomach sinking. The trees lining the garden path shake violently, hurling leaves and sticks to the sidewalk below. 

“Why,” Vanya demands, bunching up the hem of her shirt in her fists. “Why didn’t you _warn_ me?” Her voice is tight. Tears pool in her eyes. Luther notes with relief they haven’t gone white, yet. 

“I wouldn’t have gone back!” she cries, defending herself against an invisible jury. “God, I almost got them killed! Why would you not warn me?” She shoves Luther’s shoulder, but there’s no real force behind it. Then again, she could’ve used her whole body weight and he still wouldn’t have felt a thing. 

“I didn’t know,” Luther insists, guilt weighing him down regardless. “I had no idea they followed us here, Vanya. I would have warned you if I did. Of course I would have warned you.” 

A sob escapes her, her body shuddering with the effort. “They shot him,” she whimpers. Her eyes meet Luther’s, begging for answers. “Why would they shoot him?” 

“I’m sorry,” he offers weakly. What else can he say? 

The last of her resolve breaks, tears flowing like rivers. “Why?” she keeps asking, in the breaths between sobs. 

Energy, still invisible rather than blue, rolls off Vanya’s body in waves. The pressure is nothing compared to the full force Luther’s seen, more off the superpowered equivalent of curling in on oneself. A meek attempt at protection in a vulnerable state. Luther leans into it, gently draping an arm over Vanya’s shoulders. She slumps into his side, crushing the proto-forcefield between them. 

It’s unfamiliar, and a bit awkward, but the wind does calm down. 

He lets her cry like that for a while. Gives her time to process that her amnesia-induced comfort is over, and the harrowing reality of being a Hargreeves has caught up, the way it always does. 

His shirt is damp when she finally sits up. She steadies herself with a few breaths, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. It makes his chest ache, seeing her face all red and puffy, so he stares at his shoes instead. 

“Do you want to go see them? Before we leave?” he offers tentatively, gesturing towards the hospital. 

Vanya breathes for a few more seconds before answering, regaining her composure. “No. No, I told Sissy I’d be back when it’s safe. Those guys aren’t dead yet,” she says softly. She pushes herself off the bench and turns to offer Luther a hand up. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she adds, apologizing with ease. “Can we get out of here, please?” 

It seems as good a time as any to break the news. “Actually, I have Allison’s address.” He pauses, not wanting to stress Vanya out more, but also reluctant to hide his fears from her. “Now that we know the Commission’s here, finding everyone is a bit more urgent.” 

“But it’s me they’re after, isn’t it?” she asks, following Luther towards the car. 

He shrugs. “We’re all kind of trespassing through time right now, so I wouldn’t be surprised if they came after all of us. They wanted us all dead last time, too.” He thinks back for a moment, then shakes his head. “Actually, that’s not right. They wanted all of us dead except you,” he explains nonchalantly. “Wonder what changed.” 

“I don’t care about their motives,” Vanya responds, not unkindly. “I don’t really want to talk about them anymore. Let’s go find Allison.” 

Luther nods in agreement and climbs in the driver’s side. 

* * * 

They do talk about it more. It’s sunset by the time they reach Allison’s house, which is still frustratingly empty. They park in front and kill the engine, and soon Vanya’s telling the story of how she incapacitated three assassins all on her own. 

Now that she’s cried out the fear of the whole thing, there’s a shy sort of pride laced in her voice as she regales Luther with how she flung grown men through the air with her mind and instinctually created a bulletproof forcefield. 

Vanya’s powers are a lot more exciting when they aren’t being used against him. 

“That’s incredible,” he tells her, and her eyes light up with the compliment. “Especially the shield. I mean, it sounds like you’ve gained a lot more fine control over your powers.” 

“It took a lot out of me,” Vanya admits, ever the modest sibling. “I was passed out in the hospital for the rest of the night and most of the morning.” 

Luther hasn’t ever been inside a hospital. Mom and Pogo (and on really bad days, Dad) were the only medical personnel he’d ever known. “What’d you tell the doctors?” he asks curiously. “About what happened?” 

Vanya smiles a little at that, like she wants to laugh but can’t bring herself to. “They didn’t ask me anything. I passed out in their entryway, and the next thing I knew a nurse was waking me up telling me my vitals were fine now and she needed the bed. I let her take me to Harlan’s room and fell asleep in the chair before I could answer a single one of Sissy’s questions,” she tells him, her smile growing when she mentions Sissy’s name. “Couldn’t answer them very well when I finally woke up, either. Yes, I have superpowers. No, I don’t know who those men were.” She glances over at Luther as the sun sets through the windshield. “I gave her your number, so she could call with updates about Harlan. I hope that’s okay.” 

“Of course it is,” Luther reassures her. 

Quiet fills the car after that. Every so often, headlights appear in the rearview mirror, getting both their hopes up just to drive straight past. Well after the darkness of night has settled, around the time Luther is considering giving up for the night, one of the pairs of headlights pulls haphazardly into Allison’s driveway. 

The sound of the engine sputters out, and the driver kills the lights, leaving the neighborhood street lamps as the only source of visibility. 

Luther and Vanya scramble out onto the sidewalk, freezing in place when the driver stumbles out of the vehicle. 

It’s a man, Luther realizes with a jolt. A scrawny, gangly man with hair past his shoulders dressed in a ridiculous silk shirt and too-tight pants. He doesn’t shut the car door right away, leaning his head back in like he’s checking for something. 

Vanya glances at Luther, clearly having clued in. Her face says, _What now?_

Luther digs the paper out of his pocket, ready to triple-check the address, when the man in the driveway speaks. 

“Allison, we can’t drive around all night looking for him. He’s a big boy, alright? We can afford to catch a little sleep while he’s out moping.” 

Vanya perks up at the mention of her sister’s name. Luther’s jaw drops as he matches the voice to the loud outfit. 

“Klaus!” he calls. Klaus jumps, cursing as his head slams into the roof of the car. 

“I told you to stay at the mansion!” he fires back, exasperated. Before Luther can even try to guess what that means, his brother pulls his head out of the driver’s side. 

“Well,” he gasps, swinging his head comically from Luther to Vanya. “Isn’t this just the day for reunions?” 

At that, the passenger door finally opens. Allison, now sporting straightened hair and bangs, just gapes at them. For a terrifying moment, Luther fears it’s slashed vocal cords rather than shock. 

Then, she slams the door and runs towards the both of them. The height difference doesn’t deter her in the slightest ‐ she slings an arm over each of their shoulders, pulling them close. 

“I can’t believe you guys are here,” she says, the relief in her voice mimicking Luther’s own. 

“Not the team I expected to see, I’ll be honest,” Klaus interjects, staring at the group with his head tilted. He nudges Allison to the side, throwing his arms around his other sister. “Hey, Vanny.” 

Luther sees Vanya smile at the nickname, hugging the brother she doesn’t remember back with equal ferocity. 

Allison pulls away from the bunch, showcasing a casual dress marred with a giant coffee stain. “God, this day is, wow‐ okay,” she stumbles, clearly trying to get her mind on track. She takes a breath, and Luther can’t be sure in the dim light, but her eyes look a little puffy. “Everyone, come inside. I’m going to change, and then we can all catch each other up on everything, okay?” 

“Vanya’s got amnesia,” Luther blurts, because he feels like someone will be pissed at him if he lets that go unsaid too long. “And also I’m about 95% sure the Commission is after us again.” 

Allison’s strained smile breaks. She glares at him, like he personally called in the time travel mafia. Klaus laughs loud enough to wake up the neighborhood. 

“That’s the major stuff, on our end,” he finishes awkwardly, like he’s giving a mission report. “Just didn’t want to forget those before we all dive into the details.” 

Allison inhales through her nose and nods sharply. “I am going to go get changed,” she repeats. They all follow her single file through the front door. Tiredly, she adds, “Klaus, put on a pot of coffee,” before disappearing upstairs. 

He does as he’s told, humming a tune all the way, then sets about making two mugs of tea. 

Luther gazes around the room as he does, amazed even more by the interior of the house than the exterior. The living room alone is bigger than Luther’s apartment. It’s nothing, of course, compared to the mansion he saw magazine pictures of back in 2019, but it’s more than impressive for something scraped together in a foreign decade. He wonders if she rumored a landlord. 

“So, the two of you are awfully doom and gloom tonight,” Klaus ventures, setting a mug of tea in front of Vanya and keeping the other for himself. “I’m doing quite well, thanks for asking. Three years sober and fabulously wealthy,” he drawls, his face splitting into a grin. “Richer than Allison in her glory days, probably.” Vanya looks impressed, but Luther’s not so naive. He rolls his eyes, with more humor than exasperation, as Klaus starts talking to the air. “Fine, not richer than Allison. In my defense, Diego’s couch in a boiler room used to be my epitome of luxury. Give me a break,” he huffs, swatting at the space next to him. 

“Three years?” Luther asks. “Is that how long you’ve been here?” 

“Give or take a few months,” Klaus mutters, forever incapable of giving a straight answer. “And you, mein bruder?” 

“One year. Only a month for Vanya.” 

Klaus hums at that, taking a sip of his drink. “Ally’s done two years so far, if my memory serves,” he supplies, tapping his temple. “Speaking of which, what’s this about yours going kaput?” he asks, turning his attention to Vanya. 

“I told you guys to wait for me,” Allison huffs, reappearing in a pink and yellow nightgown. Her hair has been hastily dragged into a ponytail, and her face is freshly washed. 

“Not true,” Klaus quips. “You said make coffee, which I did.” He gestures to the pot, which has just finished brewing. 

Allison pours herself a large mug, tossing in a helping of creamer. She makes one for Luther, too, sliding it gently across the table. 

“You are insufferable,” she tells Klaus, without any bite. 

She moves to sit down, but Klaus sticks out his arm. “Wait!” 

“What?” 

“Can we do this in the living room?” he whines. “I’m not saying I plan on falling asleep during everyone’s rapturously entertaining stories, but on the very off chance that I do‐” Allison flicks him in the back of the head, but he continues, unfazed, “‐I would prefer it to be on the couch.” 

She moves to the living room without another word, clearly too tired to argue. 

Luther sits in an armchair while the other three pile on the sofa. Klaus stretches his legs out over Vanya, who’s made the mistake of sitting herself in the middle. 

Klaus manages to keep himself awake during Vanya’s recollection of her month in 1963, interrupting every now and again with jokes or awkwardly phrased sympathies. About halfway through Luther’s recap of his year, however, the peanut gallery has grown quiet. 

Luther’s almost gotten to his reunion with Vanya when the TV snaps on, filling the lamplit room with flashing colors and the sound of a high-energy advertisement. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Klaus says, fumbling with the remote. “I love countless cage fighting stories as much as the next guy, I just‐” he turns down the volume a few notches under Allison’s glare, but leaves it loud enough to hear‐ “I’m a multitasker, you know?” 

“Klaus,” Allison sighs, her mothering voice in full force. “Give me the remote.” 

He turns the volume down another notch. “Just a little background noise?” he bargains. 

“Klaus.” She stretches her hand out, leaning across an amused-looking Vanya. 

Luther shakes his head as Klaus sits on the remote instead, prompting Allison to stand up and easily lift him off of it. He grabs the other end of it as she attempts to yank it away, resulting in a channel-changing tug of war. 

They yell empty insults at each other as Luther and Vanya fail to hold back laughter, eventually succumbing to it themselves. The whole thing takes Luther back to the rare “sleepovers” they would have as kids, sneaking out to get donuts, spending hours arguing over which movie they should secretly watch on the lowest possible volume. 

Finally, Allison prevails, gently kicking Klaus onto the floor as she pries the remote from his fingers. She rubs her victory in her brother’s face, then goes to turn off the television, which had landed on some local news channel. 

Her finger hovers over the button instead, her laughter dissipating in an instant. Luther looks towards the screen. 

“If you have any information that could lead to the arrest of these fugitives, contact Dallas police immediately,” the newscaster reads. The room falls silent as everyone takes in the mugshot plastered on the left of the screen. “Do not approach, as they are considered armed and dangerous.” 

The police department’s phone number is read aloud before the news cycle moves unceremoniously to the next story, the photos replaced by a chipper news anchor. 

Luther glances at Vanya, who’s struggling to read the room. 

“Son of a bitch,” Allison sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a thank you for making it through this necessary plot-filler chapter, the next chapter will be up shortly - i just need to edit it! it's a good one, promise <3


	7. November 17: Diego

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diego wakes up to find Lila missing.

“Stop,” Diego pleads, his breathing ragged. He opens his mouth to protest further as another bullet pierces through the air. 

Ben, still baby-faced at 16 years old, stands glued to the floor, his cheeks red and shiny with tears. Groaning with effort, Diego barely manages to curve the bullet an inch. It nicks the side of a tentacle that’s wormed its way out of Ben’s shirt. His baby brother wails in pain, doubling over in an attempt to shove the monster back inside. 

“He’s just a kid,” Diego snarls, exhaustion taking the bite out of his voice. He’s collapsed to his knees at this point, tears mixing with sweat on his face, far past the point of caring how pathetic he looks. 

The figure in the pink dog mask aims the gun again, and speaks in his father’s voice. “Is it not your duty, then, to protect him?” 

Diego sucks in oxygen, trying with minimal success to stop the room from spinning. 

“Answer me, Number Two!” The gun fires, aimed right between Ben’s eyes. 

Diego desperately throws himself at his brother, but Dad is suddenly behind him, holding him in place by the back of his collar. His vision goes fuzzy at the edges as he squeezes the air around the bullet. It slips through his grasp like an ice cube and scrapes across the side of Ben’s head, leaving a trail of oozing blood in its wake. 

“You’ll kill him!” Diego screams hoarsely, on the verge of passing out. 

The masked assailant speaks matter-of-factly, her voice now matching her body. “People only die if you fail to save them.” With the barrel of her rifle, she gestures to the space next to Diego. 

The grey, blood-soaked corpse of Eudora stares up at him, with eyes like marbles. 

Diego turns away fast enough to give himself whiplash. He retches, choking on thick blood instead of bile. The weapon goes off again. It’s as loud as fifty guns, all echoing off the walls of the room. 

Ben’s crying ceases, and Diego’s eyes fly open. The darkness of an unfamiliar bedroom envelops him. Rain pelts the window, offering steady background noise as a peal of thunder fades into nothing. 

His brain catches up before his heart does, still hammering away in his chest as the memory of the dream becomes mercifully less vivid. He peels off the sweat-soaked shirt on instinct, sitting up slightly to do so. 

Then, recalling the reason he went to bed with a shirt on in the first place, he glances over to the opposite side of the mattress. The covers are all pulled away, likely by the thrashing that must have been happening. 

Lila’s missing. 

Diego pushes down the residual adrenaline and climbs out of bed, flicking on lights as he makes his way to the living room. She’d probably relocated to the couch, he reasons, unable to stay asleep with Diego having an unconscious fit. She’ll tease him mercilessly about it in the morning, he’s sure. 

Both couches are empty, he quickly discovers. She’s not raiding Elliott’s fridge, either. The bathroom is dark. He even peeks his head into their host’s bedroom, on the off chance Lila had decided to go draw on his face with Sharpie. No luck. 

Back in the main room, Diego can feel the sense of panic rebuilding itself in his chest. He looks in closets, under blankets and pillows, behind the shower curtain ‐ the possible hiding places becoming increasingly ridiculous as he runs out of spots to search. 

He’s about to wake Elliott up for an interrogation when the front door slowly creaks open. Diego grabs a steak knife off the kitchen counter and ducks, cursing himself for not double checking if the thing was still locked when he woke up. 

Rain-soaked shoes and the dripping hem of a dress walk right past him, jumping back a foot when Diego stands up and clears his throat. 

“Fucking hell,” Lila sputters, knocking into the kitchen table. Her eyes focus on Diego, and she has the audacity to look irritated with him. “What the hell are you doing, sneaking around at four in the damn morning? Why are all the lights on?” she demands. She wrings out her hair with both hands, letting the water trickle to the floor. 

“Where were you?” Diego fires back, incredulous. “I mean, what the hell were you thinking, wandering around Dallas in the middle of the night? That’s dangerous even when there aren’t cops and killers looking for us, Lila!” 

She rolls her eyes, which doesn’t look nearly as flippant when she’s drenched and shivering. “I just went out for a smoke, okay? Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” 

“In the pouring rain?” Diego presses, eyebrows raised. 

Lila shrugs. “Wasn’t raining when I left. That’s why I came back inside.” 

“Where’s the lighter?” 

“What?” 

Diego steps closer. “Can’t smoke without a lighter. Did you steal one of Elliott’s? Let’s see it,” he demands. 

Lila glares at him. “Gave it to a homeless man in exchange for a cigarette,” she says cooly. “What’s with the third degree?” 

“You don’t smell like smoke,” he continues, ignoring the question. 

Lila wrinkles her nose. “Well, you smell like sweat,” she says childishly, staring at his bare chest. 

“Don’t change the subject,” he snaps. He crosses his arms, feeling suddenly exposed. “Where the hell did you run off to? The truth, this time.” 

“I just told you,” she mutters weakly, like she hasn’t even convinced herself. Her eyes drop down to the floor. It’s not fair, Diego thinks, that seeing her chewing on her thumbnail and shivering makes him feel like the bad guy. 

He locks the front door before leaving her in the kitchen, returning moments later with a couple of towels and a blanket. He shoves them in her arms and tries to continue looking mad. 

“I’m fine,” Lila insists immediately, tossing the offering on the table. Diego watches as she wraps her arms around herself tightly, in an effort to stop shaking. She succeeds only in squeezing more water from the fabric of her dress, sending it cascading onto her shoes. They squelch every time she shifts her weight. 

Her face scrunches up in frustration. “Turn around,” she finally demands, her voice undercut by an unusual shyness. Diego does as he’s told. When she gives the okay, he turns back to find her sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped in towels with the blanket pulled over her shoulders. Her dress and sneakers are abandoned in a puddle on the floor. 

He pulls up the chair across from Lila, moving an empty coffee mug to the side. She looks ashamed, Diego thinks, or maybe embarrassed. He can’t really be sure; it’s not an expression he’s ever seen on her. 

“Where did you go?” he asks again, simply. 

Lila’s still working her thumbnail. “Why does it matter?” She sounds tired. 

“Why does it‐? Because I was worried, Lila,” Diego fires back reflexively. He tries to meet her eyes, but she’s staring stubbornly at the table. 

She makes a noise that’s somewhere between an exhale and laugh. “Well, I’m sorry I worried you,” she placates, like a kid who’s been ordered to apologize. 

Diego huffs. “Are you?” he asks, disbelieving. “I mean, did you even stop to consider how stupid that was?” The anxiety is transforming itself into anger, he knows. He lets it. “I knew you had a few screws loose, Lila, but I really thought you had at least a grade school level grasp on rational thinking.” He leans across the table, propping himself up on his elbows. The movement catches her eye, and she finally looks up. “You could have been _killed_ ,” he emphasizes. “Or arrested, at the very least.” 

Lila removes her thumb from her lips and spits a bit of nail on the ground. “Spare me the theatrics,” she retorts. Her voice is sharp again, pride overwhelming exhaustion. “I’m sure you could find some other lunatic to follow you around on your budget CIA missions.” She leans back in her chair, putting more distance between them. Her eyes start to water, and she swipes at them aggressively, smudging dark eyeliner down her cheeks. “You’re not in charge of me, Diego. Three days ago you were ready to leave me to rot in the nuthouse. Cut the ‘concerned boyfriend’ bullshit.” 

Diego’s jaw opens and shuts, unable to pick any single part of her accusation to defend himself against. The silence between them grows, the sound of their breathing drowned out by the rain. 

“I’m going to bed,” Lila announces quietly, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. The chair squeaks against the floor as she stands. Diego watches as she retreats to the bedroom, leaving the door open behind her. 

He lets his forehead drop to the table, amazed at his own ability to lose an upper hand so quickly. 

_Even if I was planning something, you would be the last person I would take._

Admittedly, not his warm-and-fuzziest of moments. He’d like to say it was total bullshit, a joke he knew she’d pick up on (he does recall her brushing off the comment, muttering something about stolen Jellos). It would be a lie, though. Had those assassins not shown up that night, he knows he wouldn’t have gone back for her. He just hadn’t realized she’d drawn the same conclusion. 

It was nothing personal. It wasn’t that he thought Lila deserved to be institutionalized ‐ he didn’t. He had just been preoccupied with bigger problems, at the time. Saving the life of a president wasn’t something you brought friends from group therapy to. 

None of that even happened anyway, he thinks, bristling at his own self-awareness. The murder trio had shown up, and he’d saved her from being gunned down in an insane asylum. As Dad always said, there was no better team building than a shared life-or-death encounter. He’d kept her safe since, and if he had to do it all over again, he would purposefully break her out with him. Surely that outweighed a thoughtless jab two hours deep into mandated bracelet-making. 

Diego is well aware he suffers from less-than-mediocre people skills. That doesn’t make him a bad person. 

An uninvited memory claws its way to the surface. 

Himself, yelling, in a familiar living room. _I was pissed off, Eudora! I already said I was sorry!_

Her, arms crossed, hours away from breaking up with him for the last time. _It still hurts to hear it, Diego,_ she hisses. _Every. Single. Time. No matter how many ways you try to excuse it afterwards._

It’s selfish, but sometimes he hates that he remembers her voice so clearly. It hurts so much more than forgetting. 

He gets up from the table, some amount of time later. The rain outside has slowed to a gentle pattering. On his way to the bedroom, he grabs a hoodie Elliott abandoned on an armchair. 

The light in the room is off, but the open door offers enough visibility. Lila’s laying on her side, facing the wall. 

“Ugh, don’t be weird about it,” she groans, before Diego even makes a sound. “Forget I said anything.” 

The out is tempting. He tosses the hoodie at her, and she rolls over to inspect it. She sits up, then, ditching the towel and pulling the sweatshirt on over her bra, before wordlessly curling back into her previous position. 

“I’m not great at dealing with people. Especially ones I, you know, care about,” Diego starts. Lila makes a noise of frustration and pulls a pillow over her head. 

“It doesn’t mean I don’t care,” he continues, loud enough for her to hear through her barrier. “But it’s still a dick move. I get that.” 

“It’s fine! Whatever!” Lila interrupts, her voice muffled by the mattress. 

“I’m trying to get better at it,” he explains, genuinely. “Because honestly, I’m getting pretty sick of losing people.” He sits down on the other side of the mattress. “I shouldn’t have said that shit in Holbrook.” 

“I will turn myself back in if you don’t shut up, right now,” she whines. He laughs at that, and rips the pillow from her hands. 

She glares up at him, fighting back a smile of her own. “I’m serious. I would rather make doped-up macaroni art for the rest of my life,” she threatens. She pushes herself up, sitting with her legs tucked underneath her. 

“Alright, alright,” he relents. Lila locks eyes with him, unconvinced. He’s not sure when she learned to read him so well. 

“I just need you to know‐” he starts, stopping to grab her wrists as she lunges for another pillow. “Last thing, I promise,” he says, laughing silently at the eyeroll she gives him. 

She sighs loudly. “Pinky swear?” 

“The pinkiest.” 

“Fine,” she yields, stretching the word. “Go on, then.” 

“You are not just ‘some lunatic.’ I don’t keep you around just because I need someone to throw knives at me,” he explains. “And it’s not just because I think you’d sell me out to the cops for a hundred dollar reward, either,” he adds, seeing her squirm at the sincerity. 

Lila purses her lips. “I’d do it for fifty,” she says with fake sympathy. 

He smiles, nodding understandingly. He drops the bit to finish his sentiment. “Me and you, we’re in this thing together,” he says, his fingers still encircling her wrists. “Because it’s me, and because it’s you. That’s the whole reason.” He feels her pulse pick up, and she yanks her hands away like he’s burned her. 

He’s never seen Lila blush, before now. It doesn’t match anything about her. If he didn’t think she’d murder him, he’d tell her how cute it makes her look. 

She mumbles something under her breath. Even in the quiet of the very early morning, it’s too soft for him to make out. 

“What’d you say?” he asks. 

“I don’t hate you like I hate most people,” she repeats, in one panicked breath. An epiphany. She’s staring at him like she's looking down the barrel of a gun. 

Diego laughs with his whole chest. “Thanks,” he says simply. His laughter dies down as he goes cross-eyed, watching her lean in. 

He closes the last quarter of distance, pressing his mouth softly against hers. 

A few seconds later, Lila pulls back, her lips still slightly parted. She blinks a few times, and Diego breaks the silence. 

“Was that okay?” he ventures, unsure at what point his feelings took the left turn down this road. They’re new and fragile, the feelings, yet strong and familiar. He decides he likes them. 

Lila shakes her head a little, like she’s trying to clear a fog. “I didn’t hate it,” she admits softly. 

Diego grins. “Low bar, huh?” 

Her face shifts to a more familiar expression: smug. “I mean, I might need to help you practice a bit more,” she suggests. He leans in eagerly, but she stops him, placing her hand on his chest. 

“I’m exhausted,” she says through a smile, the bags under her eyes supporting her claim. “You free tomorrow morning?” 

All plans for a day full of training dissolve. “Yeah, my schedule’s open,” he tells her, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. 

She hums in agreement, pressing one more peck to his lips before pulling back to her side of the bed. “Goodnight, Diego.” She rolls over to face the wall. 

“Night, Lila.” He sinks into the mattress, drifting into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, trying to write angry diego: what if we made him soft instead


	8. November 18: Klaus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Klaus interrupts Dave's brunch. Vanya and Ben come along for the ride.
> 
> CW: homophobic slur

“He’s going to kill me, Allison. He is literally going to kill me.” 

Klaus groans, burying his face into a couch cushion. It blocks out the sun creeping through the curtains, but does depressingly little to dampen Luther’s babbling. Not to mention Ben, who’s lounging on the coffee table, providing uninvited commentary. Sleep slips further from his grasp. 

“Do mafia members not get sick days?” Ben asks quizzically, letting the question hang until Klaus reluctantly rolls over. 

“He’s, like, _barely_ even mafia,” Klaus yawns, keeping his voice low enough to avoid drawing attention from the kitchen. “Leave it to Luther to join the mob in the most boring way possible.” 

Allison’s voice carries into the living room. “Do you want to use the phone or not?” she asks, patience clearly wearing thin. “I have more calls to make.” 

“What am I even supposed to tell him?” Luther continues, panic coating his voice. “An apology isn’t going to make back all the money he must’ve lost last night.” 

“It was one fight,” she huffs, and Klaus can practically hear the hand planted on her hip. “Say you had a family emergency.” 

“Oh, that’ll go over well.” 

Klaus raises his eyebrows at Ben. Rare was the day one heard Luther being sarcastic; rarer still was the day it was directed at Allison. Klaus swings his legs off the couch, never one to turn down some quality sibling bickering. 

Ben stands, too, trailing Klaus as he drags himself towards the kitchen. He talks over the continued conversation of his siblings. “Luther has to know he’ll be unemployed in a few days anyway, right?” 

Klaus glances back at him, eyebrows creased. 

“The Kennedy assassination?” Ben prompts. “Jack Ruby kills Lee Harvey Oswald and gets arrested, like, right after that.” 

Klaus sidles up behind Luther, hunched over in one of Allison’s dining chairs, and clasps his shoulders. “You do realize,” he announces, rich with cheery condescension, “your boss gets himself thrown away for murder in a couple days, right?” 

He winks at Ben. The ghostly history buff flips him off. 

“He was still counting on me,” Luther insists, petulantly shrugging off Klaus’s hands. 

Klaus snorts at that, making his way to the fridge. “Way too early in the morning for your daddy issues, Lu,” he tosses back. 

Luther isn’t even fazed. “I’ve got to go apologize. He’ll just track down the car if I don’t,” he says in a hurry, standing up from the table. 

Vanya’s leaning against the counter sipping a glass of orange juice, still in her all white hospital get-up. She grabs Luther by the elbow as he goes to pass her, a concerned expression on her face. “Shouldn’t we all be sticking together?” she reasons. “In case, you know, those guys come back?” 

“We’ll have a lot more ‘guys’ on us if Ruby thinks I took the car and ran,” Luther replies firmly. 

Vanya doesn’t look convinced. Her hand stays on his arm. 

“I can handle myself,” he assures her, calming down a bit. “We don’t even know for sure that they’re after me, anyway. I’ll be fine.” 

Klaus glances sidelong at Ben, trying to wrap his brain around this new sibling duo. Once she finally lets Luther leave, and Allison returns to phoning every hospital in Dallas, he sits himself on the counter next to Vanya. 

“He did tell you about the cage, right?” Klaus asks suspiciously, taking a bite out of the apple he’d pulled from Allison’s fridge. 

Ben shoots him a glare that says, _Hey, maybe don’t poke the atomic bomb._

Vanya doesn’t seem bothered, though. “Yeah, he did,” she affirms. “The manipulative boyfriend, the moon, the drugging, all off it.” She gives him a sideways smile. “I haven’t apologized to you yet, have I? Sorry about ending the world, and all.” Her face wavers. It’s sincerity, thinly-veiled in a joke. 

Klaus laughs, ruffling up his sister’s hair. “Personally, I was kind of into the whole world-ending thing,” he jests. “What a way to go out! You had flair, that’s for sure.” 

Vanya grins at that, hiding her face behind her hands. “I think my brain wiped my memories just to save me from the embarrassment,” she admits, laughter escaping between her fingers. 

“Speaking of embarrassing,” Klaus segues, “That outfit, Van. You couldn’t raid Allison’s closet for something?” 

She scoffs in mock-offense, looking down at the cotton clothes. “I was in the _hospital,_ ” she reminds him. 

“And now you aren’t!” he concludes cheerfully. “C’mon, she’s got to have something small enough to fit you.” He turns towards his other sister. “Allison, can me and Vanny go look through‐” 

“I’m on the phone, Klaus!” she snaps, covering the receiver with her palm. She turns back to her conversation once Klaus looks suitably guilty. “Hi, Odessa, it’s me. I’m just calling to ask if any of you have seen‐?” She pauses, listening to someone on the other end. “You’re kidding me. He’s‐?” Her face is pinched, now, and Klaus is struck by how identical she looks to the pissed-off version of her childhood self. “Uh-huh. That’s what he said? Wow, okay. Mhm. Yeah.” 

Klaus and Vanya eavesdrop attentively. Ben goes and stands right next her, leaning in to hear the voice on the other end of the phone. 

After another minute or so of back-and-forth, Allison thanks the person she’s speaking to and hangs up the phone, slamming down the receiver. 

“I cannot believe him!” she exclaims, flinging a hand through Ben. He backs away, to where Klaus and Vanya are taking in the scene. 

“I take it you’ve found our buddy Raymond?” Klaus hedges, unsure which emotion to display. 

“He’s at the fucking salon. At Odessa’s,” she explains, exasperated. 

Vanya gasps. “Why wouldn’t he tell you?” she asks, having heard the entire story of Ray’s disappearance at the protest last night. 

Allison marches into the living room. “Apparently, he told the ladies at the salon we were having a ‘disagreement!’” she snaps, reappearing with her purse and keys. 

“The cop,” Klaus cringes. “But how can he be mad about that? You saved his life, for all we know!” he argues, annoyed on his sister’s behalf. 

“He thinks I’m a spy, or something. I mean, I can’t really explain it, can I? He’s right, no other black woman could’ve gotten rid of that cop like I did,” Allison admits, still seething. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m his wife. Really, does he have that little faith in me?” 

“Do you want us to come with you?” Vanya offers, as Allison pulls on a pair of shoes. 

Klaus saves his sister the awkwardness of answering. “No offense, Van, but I don’t think you and I would be much help to Ally’s case,” he explains. “Besides, I’ve got a thing of my own I’ve got to go to,” he adds nonchalantly. 

Vanya gapes at him. “So, what, we’re all just splitting up? Does no one remember the professional murders that are after us?” she demands. 

Allison gives her a sympathetic look. “I’ll be back just as soon as I can talk some sense into my husband, alright? If those guys come back, just do your whole energy-tentacle thing again,” she says, gesturing vaguely. 

“I still don’t know how I did that,” Vanya insists, “And it isn’t me that I’m worried about!” 

“I promise I will rumor any tall blonde men that get close to me,” Allison placates. She reaches for the door handle and pauses a moment, considering. “Stay with Klaus, though.” 

“Excuse me!” Klaus squeaks in protest. “I recall saving all your sorry asses the last time the Commission took a swing at us!” 

Allison sighs, impatient. “Well, Ben’s not here this time, is he?” 

“ _Please_ tell her,” Ben begs, with no actual hope in his voice. 

Klaus wishes he wanted to. 

“No, he’s not,” he lies, ignoring the defeated look on his ghost brother’s face. 

“Stay with Vanya,” Allison instructs. “I’ll be back soon.” She slams the door shut behind her. 

An hour or so later, Klaus pulls open the door to the diner Dave had mentioned in his stories, with Vanya and Ben in tow. He’d tried to convince his littlest sister that he wasn’t in need of a babysitter, but apparently amnesia had left her as stubborn as any other Hargreeves. He had, at least, gotten her to ditch the inpatient clothes in exchange for an oversized blue sweater and a heavily cuffed pair of dress pants, courtesy of Allison’s wardrobe. 

A bell dings cheerfully overhead, and a perky hostess tells Vanya and him to sit wherever they’d like. Vanya turns her eyes towards the row of booths, but Klaus directs them both towards the lunch counter instead. 

“Is your date here yet?” Vanya asks, sliding onto a stool. 

“Not a date,” Klaus reminds her again, taking the seat next to her. _If only._ “Just need to talk to someone.” 

“Are they cute?” she persists, a small smile on her face. 

Klaus ignores the invitation to wax poetic about the absolute marvel that is Dave’s beauty, which says wonders about how tightly-wound he currently is. 

“Here, order something,” he deflects, grabbing two menus off a nearby stack. He hides his face behind one as he scans the restaurant. His stomach flips when his eyes land on Dave, the younger version he’d met in the paint shop, listening raptly to the man sat across from him. 

Like many of Klaus’s plans, now that he’s staring it in the face, it’s starting to come apart at the seams. 

“I told you this would happen,” Ben sighs, like Klaus is a toddler who’s deliberately touched a hot stove. “Remind me why this ambush couldn’t be staged for when he got off of work, alone?” 

“Ooh, half-off on waffles,” Vanya muses happily, oblivious to Klaus’s inner turmoil. “Look, they come with chocolate chips and whipped cream! Or blueberries. That’s probably the healthier option, isn’t it?” 

She looks up when she gets no acknowledgement, and follows Klaus’s gaze with her own. “Who are you staring at?” she asks. 

“That’s the guy I’m meeting,” Klaus admits, nodding towards the booth in the back. 

“Who’s the other guy?” Vanya inquires, indicating the man punctuating his story with overzealous explosion sound effects. 

“His uncle. Ryan, maybe?” 

Klaus turns back to find Vanya’s face furrowed. “Weird date,” she concludes, returning to her menu. 

Ben snorts. “Believe it or not, I’ve seen weirder.” 

“Well, I’d rather Uncle Ryan not know I’m here,” Klaus explains impatiently. His chest aches as he watches Dave laugh along to his uncle’s regaling. 

A waiter on the opposite side of the counter takes Vanya’s order. It must be a slow shift, because when he returns with her drink, he hangs around to make small talk with her. Klaus is thankful for the distraction. When Uncle Ryan finally stands up and heads for the restroom (decades later), Klaus strides across the restaurant as quickly and inconspicuously as he can manage, and slides into the bright yellow booth across from the soldier he watched die. 

“Hey!” Dave greets, in that same naive voice from the paint store. “Mamie Pink, right?” He takes a bite of his hashbrowns and eggs. 

Klaus knows first hand how little Dave is fazed by anything. It’s baffling, and one of the most endearing things about him. 

“Klaus Hargreeves,” he corrects, unable to keep the smile from his face. “But you can call me whatever you want.” 

Dave smiles politely, asks him how the paint job is coming along. Klaus pushes down the overwhelming desire to make small talk with him all day and cuts to the chase. 

“Convincing” is not in the top 100 adjectives Klaus would use to describe himself, but the little girl above can’t say he doesn’t try. Grinning the whole way, he tells Dave that he knows him, from the future-past, knows all about his war-vet grandfather and father and Uncle Ryan (“Brian,” Dave corrects). With every ounce of conviction he has, Klaus bequeaths him with the knowledge that the infamous dominoes never topple, and the entire Vietnam War is good for nothing but upping the cosmic body count. 

For all the crazy shit Klaus has ever told Dave, he’s distantly surprised that this is the straw that finally made the camel look at him like he’s insane. 

He doesn’t even get to the real whopper of it all ‐ the fact that Dave bleeds out in his arms, a casualty of a forgotten battle in a forgotten forest ‐ before good old Uncle Brian returns to the table. 

“You know this clown?” the man demands, looming over Dave. Klaus huffs out a laugh at the lackluster insult. 

Dave shrinks into his seat. “Um, he bought pink paint. At the store,” he explains haltingly. He glances at Klaus with something like an apology. 

“Pink paint,” Brian emphasizes. “Makes sense.” 

_How many brain cells did it take to piece that one together?_ Klaus thinks, biting back the comment at the last second. He smiles politely instead, silently congratulating the man on his discovery. 

“How about you get out of my seat, queer?” he spits. Dave suddenly looks like he wishes he could disappear. 

“Oh, if I had a nickel‐,” Klaus begins, only to be interrupted by his 5-foot-1 bodyguard, marching up to the booth like she was a dealer Klaus owed money to. 

It’s not him that Vanya’s after, though. “What’d you just say to him?” she demands, glaring up at Brian with bravado Klaus has never seen on her. Judging by Ben’s bug-eyed expression, he’s not the only one who’s shocked. 

Brian chuckles at the display. “And what business is it of yours, sweetheart?” he asks coolly. 

“That’s my brother,” Vanya snaps, her arms crossed tightly. 

“Well,” Brian sneers, yanking Klaus from the booth. “You can take your fag brother, and tell him to stay the hell away from my nephew!” Brian shoves him, hard. He crashes into Vanya before landing in an unceremonious heap on the floor. 

“Fuck you,” Vanya hisses. The two glasses on the table tremble briefly before exploding, spraying juice and tiny shards of glass all over the half-eaten meals. 

Klaus scrambles to his feet, regaining his balance. He grabs Vanya by both shoulders, blocking her view of the sputtering target of her anger. “Hey! Hey, hey, hey, hey,” he begs, trying to catch her eye. The air thrums like an industrial AC unit just kicked on, if that unit was centered in Vanya’s chest. 

In his peripheral, he sees a waitress grab the phone behind the counter. “No need for that!” he calls pleasantly. “We were just leaving!” He turns back to his sister. “Vanya, hey, calm down, please!” he implores her, through a forced smile. 

He hears Brian take a step forward behind him, yelling confused accusations all the way. Vanya, doing an excellent job at the opposite of calming down, yells over Klaus’s shoulder, “Touch him again, see what happens!” He can feel energy moving around his body, like a water-less wave pool. 

Ben, a gaping statue, is watching the whole ordeal in silence. A train wreck he can’t quite look away from. 

“Vanya, we are not repeating 2019 in this diner,” Klaus scolds her, in a hushed but frantic voice. He squats down to put his face in front of hers. “Let it go, _please._ ” 

Something in her expression changes. The white that had been pricking through her irises fades, even as Brian’s yammering continues. Klaus pulls her out of the restaurant, without even chancing a last look back at the booth. 

She gets into the passenger seat on her own. Ben appears in the back, and Klaus peels out onto the road, bathed in the familiar feeling of failure. 

He pulls over in some empty parking lot after a while, once they’re far enough from the scene. He needs to think, and he’s not a great driver on the best of days, never mind when he’s hardly paying attention. 

He doubts the disaster of an intervention did anything to talk Dave out of enlisting. He could show up at his work again, maybe. Now that he’s really tried it, though, sat down and started saying it all out loud, he's embarrassed that a part of him ever hoped it could work in the first place. 

Vanya hasn’t spoken the whole drive. She’s mellowed, at least, that much Klaus can tell. The air doesn't feel alive anymore. 

Ben, Klaus realizes, has also been suspiciously silent since the incident. Not a single I-told-you-so, no tired lecture about how Klaus’s plan was doomed to failure from the start. Not even a pity condolence. 

He glances back in the rear-view. For all the unfamiliar expressions he’s seen on Vanya today, Ben’s poorly hidden guilt takes the cake. 

They did ditch without paying for Vanya’s waffles, but Ben has been tethered to Klaus for too long to still get hung up over a little stolen food. Maybe he’d overheard some sob story about the waiter needing that two dollar tip to pay for his dog’s brain surgery, or something, and he was concocting the best way to make Klaus feel like an asshole about it. 

He glares at his brother in the mirror, silently inviting him to get his comments over with. Ben pulls up his hood and shoves his hands in his pockets, but doesn’t meet his eyes. 

Klaus balks. Vanya now throws curse words around at men she doesn't know, and Ben looks ashamed. His living siblings would never believe which one he found more surprising. 

It takes a few minutes, but he finally manages to mash the brooding pieces together. “That’s how you used to stand up for me,” Klaus guesses, staring at his brother through the mirror. Ben stiffens, and Klaus knows he’s right on the money. 

“Did I?” Vanya asks softly, looking away from the window. “I don’t remember.” 

“Yeah! Before you got all bitter,” he continues, delighting at the novelty of reading someone so well. “Oh my god, remember that time when we were, what, 13? When that publicist told me my action figures might sell a little better if I acted less, ‘you know’?” He says the last part in the woman’s voice, limp wrist gesture and all. He giggles at his own impression. “And I was like, lady, I’m the lookout on every single mission. The nail polish was hardly the nail in that coffin.” 

Ben gives a tiny smile at that. “And I said‐” he starts. 

“What did I say?” Vanya asks. 

“You said,” Klaus pauses, remembering quiet little Ben’s rare display of mouthiness. “You said those action figures were all stupid, anyway, but your Dad had taught you a lot of ways to kill people with one.” 

Vanya bursts into laughter, echoed by her brother in the backseat. 

“I’ve never seen anyone turn that pale,” Ben recollects, with distant pride. 

Klaus knows Ben loves him. Of course he knows that. But compared to the countless memories of _It’s your own fault, Klaus,_ the times Ben was on his side feel few and far between. “I guess, after y… after Ben died,” Klaus supplies, for Vanya’s sake, “I just kept making different people mad at me, didn’t I? In so many fresh and exciting ways! What’s that word you always used?” 

Vanya blinks. “I don’t remember.” 

“Self-sabotaging,” Ben answers, neutrally. 

“Self-sabotaging!” Klaus repeats, clapping his hands together. “How many times have I heard that over the years?” he asks, with a twisted sense of nostalgia. 

“I’m sorry,” Vanya apologizes, unsteadily. 

Klaus laughs, brushing off her apology. “Oh, no, it was true, Vanny. I definitely was self-sabotaging,” he admits, saying the last word in an exaggerated mimicry of Ben’s voice. 

“Still,” she continues, “I should’ve stuck up for you, anyway.” 

After Klaus had discovered the ghost-banishing world of drugs, he could count the number of interactions he’d had with Vanya on one hand. None of them particularly positive. Impressive, really, how an apocalyptic meltdown could bring a family together. 

“Nobody can hear me, Klaus,” Ben says defensively. “If they could, I’d still be sticking up for you.” 

“Would you?” Klaus hums, disbelieving. He’s not angry, or hurt; he’s just telling the truth. God, after this many years chained to himself, he wouldn’t be able to defend himself either. That is to say, he can’t. Colossally stupid decisions are just a part of who he is. 

Deciding he could, in two minutes, convince a closeted stranger not to enlist in the military despite his entire life pointing him in that direction, for example. 

“Would I what?” Vanya asks, pulling him from his trailing thoughts. 

Ben talks over her. “Well, maybe if you made me corporeal once in a while we’d have the chance to find out,” he provides, with a familiar passive-aggression. 

Klaus knew it would be the nice thing to do. He knew that after all the shit he’d put his dead brother through ‐ yanking him away from the light just so he could watch Klaus piss his life away for years ‐ he should really grant him this. 

“Klaus?” Vanya asks again. 

“It’s nothing,” he says brightly, looking over at her for the first time. “Thanks, for back there. Touching, even if you did give me a heart attack in the process.” 

“Sorry,” she says, sheepish. “Still getting a grasp on the whole ‘powers’ thing.” 

Klaus nods understandingly. 

“Should we go back to Allison’s?” Vanya asks after a moment. “We should really all start working on a plan to find Diego, now that we know he’s in Dallas.” 

Klaus would pay money to see the look on Diego’s face, if only he could hear that Vanya was trying to protect him. 

Preferring to have something to occupy his time rather than be alone with his thoughts, Klaus suggests the two of them drive around and cover some ground themselves. “It’s not like Luther and Allison know where to look any better than we do,” he points out. 

Vanya looks like she wants to argue, but accepts the suggestion. “Alright. Where should we start?” 

Klaus starts the engine. “Beats me,” he sighs. “Are there any knife shops in Dallas? Somewhere selling leather fetish gear, maybe?” 

An uncomfortable laugh from the passenger seat. "Uhh..." 

"He could be in an ice cream parlor," Klaus muses, putting the car in reverse. "We should definitely go get ice cream. For purely Diego-finding purposes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally diving into some klaus and ben territory! yes im still upset they never got a resolution in s2


	9. November 18: Ben

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diego reunion!

“Ooh!” Klaus exclaims in wonder, stopping suddenly in the middle of the sidewalk. Ben, who’d been a few feet ahead, turns to see what’s caught his brother’s attention. A gaggle of teenage boys run hurriedly past, and Ben steps to the side to avoid phasing through them. 

With shopping bags weighing down his elbows, Klaus eagerly points up at the marquee across the road. Ben squints in the evening sun. The local movie theater is featuring something called _Kiss of the Vampire._ The poster looks as corny as the title sounds. 

“We should see a movie, Vanya!” Klaus begs, oblivious to the grumbling pedestrians shouldering their way past him. Ben gestures for him to move over, lacking the ability to yank him to the curb. 

Vanya, empty-handed save for a drained milkshake to-go cup, looks like she’d rather jump into the passing traffic. At least someone besides Ben has taste. 

“Shouldn’t we keep looking for Diego?” she reminds him mildly. 

They’d parked the car ages ago, opting to walk up and down the city streets instead. Ben had helpfully pointed out that their wanted fugitive brother probably wasn’t hanging around the center of town in broad daylight, let alone in any number of the small clothing boutiques they’d been to. Whenever Vanya had mentioned the same, Klaus dismissed her with a breezy, “Any better ideas?” Even Ben, admittedly, had none, so Klaus’s shopping spree continued. 

He’d tried not to nag him too much. Of all the ways Klaus had of distracting himself, this was definitely one of the most harmless. 

Klaus is knee-deep in a pitch about why Diego would want them to see an awful vampire romcom in his honor, when a man in a button up shirt and tie steps forward, awkwardly waving to get Klaus and Vanya’s attention. A stack of fliers in his hand advertise a sale going on at the store next to them, Morty’s Television and Radio. 

“Excuse me,” the salesman quips, his voice as mousy as his appearance. He searches Klaus’s face as if the answers to life’s mysteries might lie behind his new oversized sunglasses. “I couldn’t help but notice ‐ er, overhear, I suppose ‐ and forgive me if I’m off base here, but ‐” he takes a breath, steeling his face with determination. “Did I hear you say you were looking for someone?” 

Klaus glances over at Ben, silently asking for an appropriate response. Vanya beats him to it. 

“No,” she says quickly. “No, we’re not looking for anybody. I don’t even know anybody.” Her face flushes red. “I mean, I know some people, obviously. I know Klaus,” she supplies, helpfully gesturing to her cackling brother. “I know you, now! Sort of. But I don’t know anyone who the police are looking for, so.” She bites the inside of her cheek before staring pointedly down at her shoes. 

“Finally,” Klaus says lovingly, smacking Vanya gently with a shopping bag full of new scarves. “Something I recognize about you.” 

Ben smiles in quiet agreement. 

“You were always the worst liar out of all of us,” Klaus informs her, with a fond grin. “Which is saying a lot, because we lived with Luther.” 

“I can help you!” the salesman urges. He perks up as Klaus speaks, his eyes wide with awe. “I know about the future!” 

Klaus smiles brightly, cocking an eyebrow. “Well, a fabulous hook, I must admit,” he says, plucking a flier from the man’s grasp. He looks it over, then hands it back with sympathy. 

“Unfortunately, neither myself nor my dear lying sister are in the market for a discount television or radio. Au revoir!” 

“Not that,” the man protests. “I mean, I know Diego!” Having stopped Klaus and Vanya in their tracks, he continues, hushed and conspiratorial. “I recognize you,” he insists, pointing to Klaus. “The first to arrive! February 11, 1960!” 

“And you,” he continues, looking towards Vanya. “The little one in all white? I didn’t get a good view of your face, but the stature matches. And the names, well, it’s too good to be a coincidence!” 

“How the hell does he know all that?” Ben demands warily. “You think he’s Commission?” 

He kind of doubts they’d all be having such a nonviolent conversation if he was. The guy looks less murderous and more kid-in-a-candy-store. But what other explanation was there? 

“Diego’s upstairs,” the man whispers, jutting a thumb back towards the electronics store. 

Right. That was a start. 

Klaus, never one to stay tongue-tied for too long, chuckles happily. “No shit?” he marvels. “Oh, I cannot _wait_ to see the looks on Luther and Allison’s faces. The family screw-ups are good for something after all!” He holds out a hand to Vanya. She returns his high-five, but keeps her eyes on the salesman. 

Ben plants himself between him and his siblings, ignoring how everyone but Klaus stares right through him. “If he tries something, you do your thing and let me deal with him,” he tells his brother. 

Klaus rolls his eyes. “You aren’t planning on killing us, are you...” He pauses, squinting at the man’s faded nametag. “Elliott?” 

Elliott shakes his head adamantly, glancing nervously at Vanya. “From what Diego’s said, I doubt I’d get very far,” he admits with clipped laughter. “Not that I would try!” he quickly amends. 

Vanya straightens her spine a little. Confident, but not intentionally threatening. "Lead the way," she offers. 

Elliott ushers them into the store, then scampers off to let his boss know he’ll be taking his break. Ben heads up the stairs in the meantime. Fine, the guy seems harmless enough, but what are dead brothers for if not scoping a place out? 

The loft area, a combination living room/conspiracy theorist den by the looks of it, is exposed to the store below. With a passing glance at some alien-themed newspaper clippings, Ben phases through the door that leads to the rest of the apartment. 

There’s no sign of any danger ‐ or his brother ‐ in the kitchen. He’s about to venture down the hallway when he hears a woman’s laugh, loud and sharp. Ben spins around, following the sound to an adjacent room, walled off by some sort of opaque glass. 

Inside is Diego, sitting up against the headboard of a queen size bed. His hair falls down past his ears, longer than the mugshot on TV had shown. It covers up the scar along his temple, but somehow makes him look no less rogue. If he could, Ben would tell him it suits him. 

A moot point, really. If Ben were corporeal, Diego would have killed him again to keep him from repeating this scene to anyone. 

The source of the laughter, a woman with choppy black hair in a beige overall-style dress, is lying horizontally across the mattress, her head in Diego’s lap. She’s doodling on her own wrist with a black marker. Diego is playing with her hair in lieu of a knife, brow furrowed in concentration as he tries to figure out how a braid works. 

“Bullshit,” he says to her. “You’re like twenty pounds.” 

“I’ll prove it. Right now,” she goads him, making no move to stand. Ben’s surprised to hear an accent. She lifts a hand up and feels at the piece of hair Diego is working on. "Three strands, not two," she tells him. 

"It's better with two," Diego argues, already untangling the twist. Ben cringes as he starts tying three-stranded knots. “What makes you think you could win?" 

“If I told you, you'd prepare for it," she notes, pointing at him with the tip of the marker. "Better to keep you on your toes." 

“You probably bite,” he ventures, ditching the braid endeavor. 

She smirks at the comment, colors in a shape on her wrist. “You know I do,” she says lightly. 

Ben makes a gagging expression at his brother. Not eager to hear more, he makes his way back to Klaus. He, Vanya, and the mysterious television salesman are already on their way up the stairs. 

“He’s here,” Ben informs Klaus. “Place seems safe, he’s not held hostage. Be nice about the girl.” 

Klaus’s eyes pop out of his head. “The one from the news?” he whispers gleefully, falling a few steps behind the others. 

“Think so,” Ben affirms. 

“Oh my god, please tell me they’re clothed.” 

Ben thanks his ghost stars he didn’t walk in on that. “Why would you put that image in my head?” he chastises, swatting his brother through the shoulder. Klaus sticks his tongue out at him. 

“You okay, Klaus?” Vanya calls, as Elliott pushes open the door to the apartment’s interior. 

“Peachy keen!” he answers, skipping towards her. “Random thought, wouldn’t it be hilarious if Diego and his fugitive friend were lovers?” 

“Just me! No knives please!” Elliott announces, as the troupe enters the apartment. “And, uh, a few of your siblings, if you want to come out, maybe!” 

There’s rustling from the side bedroom. Moments later, Diego emerges, skeptical expression melting away as he lays eyes on Klaus and Vanya. 

“I’d like to say hi, too, you know,” Ben quips. He thinks he’s earned a certain degree of petulancy. 

Klaus, predictable as ever, ignores the request. “Your hair!” he chimes instead, dropping all his shopping bags before crossing the room. Vanya trails behind, smiling tentatively. 

“Don’t say shit,” Diego grouches. “I haven’t had a chance to get it cut.” 

“I like it!” Klaus assures him, taking a strand between his fingers. “Very Antonio Banderas.” 

Diego pushes Klaus’s hand away and scoffs, but Ben can see him puff up at the compliment. “How the hell did you find me?” he asks bluntly. 

“Oh, I missed you too, Diego!” Klaus gushes sarcastically. He shoots Ben a look that says, _Can you believe this guy?_ “I have been doing well since being dropped on my ass in 1960, and how about yourself?” 

Diego’s face softens minutely at the mention of the year. Ben swallows down the sour taste of jealousy as his brother pulls Klaus into a stiff hug. Vanya shifts awkwardly on the sideline, like she’s unsure whether she’s invited to the reunion. 

Diego pushes back from Klaus but keeps a hold on his shoulders, giving him a once over. “You’re good, huh?” he repeats, an implied _Really?_ hanging off the end. 

“Well, he did start a cult,” Ben supplies bitterly. 

Klaus goes a different route. “Sober and everything!” he sings, punctuated with anxious jazz hands. 

To Ben’s surprise, Diego looks like he just might believe him. It’s a nice moment. 

Vanya clears her throat. 

“What’s she doing here?” Diego asks coldly. 

Moment over. 

“Be nice!” Klaus tuts, throwing his arm around a crestfallen Vanya. “She’s got amnesia,” he stage-whispers, over the top of his sister’s head. 

“Convenient,” Diego mumbles. His fingers twitch, but there’s no knife to fiddle with, so he stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Bet she’ll remember how to blow shit up again the first time one of us steps on her toes.” 

Elliott makes a noise somewhere between a whimper and a gasp. He shrinks back against the wall, watching Vanya like she’s a lit stick of dynamite. “Hang on, you said it was all a misunderstanding!” he hisses, shooting a panicked glare at Diego. 

“Zip it,” Diego orders. 

Elliott grabs a pair of scissors off a nearby side table. Ben hasn’t the slightest idea what he thinks he could possibly do with them. “Is she or is she not going to vaporize my apartment?” he asks, his voice squeaking. 

“If she wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” Diego states flippantly. Vanya hurriedly assures the man that she wants no such thing. “So get a grip,” Diego finishes. He glares at Elliott until he drops the scissors. 

Ben rolls his eyes. His brother, Diego, the epitome of _Only I can say that about them!_

He missed him so much. 

Klaus sighs dramatically. “You could stand to be like, ten percent less of an asshole, you know. Vanny’s been wandering around Dallas all day, trying to make sure you weren’t dead in a ditch somewhere.” 

Diego, of course, takes the thoughtfulness as a personal attack. “Why would I be dead?” he demands, incredulous. “I can handle myself just fine. I certainly don’t need the fourth horseman herself worrying about me.” 

Vanya doesn’t so much as flinch at the epithet. “There’s these men,” she starts, quiet but sure. “Commission, Luther said. They came after me two nights ago, and we think it’s only a matter of time before they come after the rest of us.” 

Diego blinks at her, the fight visibly draining from his body. 

“That’s why I was worried,” she finishes simply. “I didn’t want them to catch you off guard before we could warn you.” 

“Are you hurt?” Diego asks, concern creasing his face. 

Vanya shakes her head. She doesn’t offer up the rest of the story, yet. 

Diego continues, in full detective mode. “What’d they look like, the men?” 

“Are they from the future, too?” Elliott inquires. He approaches the group, apparently satisfied that Vanya won’t be imminently blowing up his apartment. “Superpowered, like you guys?” 

Vanya recounts what she saw, a faraway look in her eyes. Ben wants so badly to hug her. Klaus squeezes her shoulder instead. 

Diego nods at the description. “Shoot first, ask questions never?” 

“That’s the type,” Vanya agrees tightly. 

He huffs, “Yeah, we’ve met.” Everyone, Ben included, stares at him in stunned silence. “Shit,” he mutters, his fingers curling into fists. “I thought it was just me they wanted.” 

Elliott starts in with more questions, but Diego cuts him off. “You mentioned Luther?” 

Klaus interjects, his chipper voice out of tune with the heavy subject matter. “Yeah! The big guy’s working for Jack…” He snaps his fingers a few times, searching for the name. 

“Ruby,” Ben supplies automatically. 

“Ruby!” Klaus parrots. “Who would’ve thought, huh? Allison’s around, too, rubbing it in all of our faces by being the most well adjusted, once again. The only one still missing is little Number Five,” Klaus explains. “Ten bucks says he’s back in 2019, the sequel, cursing all of us for screwing up his masterful time travel equation,” he giggles. 

The door to the side bedroom swings open, then, creaking on its hinges. Diego’s partner-in-crime leans cavalierly against the doorframe. Ben watches as she measures up Klaus and Vanya, an amused grin on her face. For the briefest of moments, he could swear her eyes land on him, too. 

He glances down excitedly to see if Klaus has accidentally made him corporeal, but by the time he lifts his head back up, she’s looking at Diego. Ben chides himself for such a stupid idea. 

“What?” the woman says coyly, crossing her arms under Diego’s glare. “You were taking too long, I got bored.” 

“I’ve been out here less than five minutes.” 

She shrugs, a mischievous glint in her eye. “You’re not the boss of me,” she tells him, still smiling. 

Ben wants to tell them to get a room. They can’t hear him, so he does. 

“Diego,” Klaus whines, practically bouncing with excitement. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” 

“I’m Lila,” the woman offers, not moving from her spot. She pauses a moment, then confidently adds, “Diego’s girlfriend.” 

Klaus, not even attempting to be discreet, beams gleefully at Ben. Diego looks like he’s frantically trying to figure out if someone’s playing a prank on him. 

“We saw you both on the news!” Klaus swoons. “Two suspects, armed and dangerous, on the run after assaulting a police officer,” he recounts dramatically. “The beginning of every good love story!” 

“Focus,” Diego snaps, flustered. “Where are the others?” 

They spend a good while catching up. Elliott disappears to finish his shift, and eagerly rejoins the conversation when the shop closes shortly after. Ben watches the sunset through the window, half listening to his brother’s third iteration of his plan to save the president. 

Klaus has long since lost interest. He’s sitting criss-crossed on the floor across from Diego’s girlfriend, who’s humming as she paints his nails a horrible green color. 

Vanya politely tells her brother that bullet bending is a very cool skill. Elliott continues his campaign to be allowed to serve as back-up on the saving JFK mission. 

Ben’s thinking they should probably head back to Allison’s soon, or at least have Klaus give her a call, when three sharp knocks reverberate off the front door, echoing through the apartment. 

The chatter ceases, and Ben’s first thought is that his sister has somehow managed to track them down on her own, perhaps motivated by the sheer desire to lecture them all for not checking in. 

Then, Ben hears the faint sound of a gun cocking. Vanya’s eyes flash white. “Hide,” she whispers, voice pitched with terror. 

Diego dives into the bedroom, reappearing instantly with a fistful of knives. Vanya grabs Klaus by the elbow and tugs him behind a kitchen counter. Lila ducks the other way, vanishing around a corner. Elliott’s frozen, still in a chair pulled up to the dining table, when a bullet shatters the front door’s lock. 

Ben rushes forward, helpless, as two guns train on Diego, and a third fires at Elliott’s skull. His brother shouts, lunging for the table. He's not nearly close enough to connect, but it turns out he doesn't need to. Faster than Ben can think, the bullet lodges itself in the ceiling, repelled away from Elliott’s brain like a magnet. 

“Fuck yes!” Diego cheers, as more bullets fly his way. 

A massive wave of energy bursts forth from behind the counter. It sends the bullets flying into walls, knocking over the silent assassins, Diego, and Elliott in its wake. Lila curses in surprise from wherever she’s hiding. The apartment groans in protest as the wave crashes into the opposite wall, sending the building into an earthquake-like shudder. 

“She’s going to bring the place down!” Ben shouts. “Klaus, let me fight!” 

“Vanny, I love you, but you’re going to kill us!” Klaus offers bluntly. The attackers are already getting back on their feet as the last of the tremor diminishes. Diego shoves Elliott behind a toppled piece of furniture, clutching the side of his own head. 

Klaus shuts his eyes tight, and Ben prepares himself as his brother’s fists begin to glow a pale blue. He stares down at his own body, waiting for the moment it becomes the same color. 

A peal of gunfire splits through the air, and Klaus’s focus breaks. 

“I’m sorry!” he calls, before Ben can say anything. He watches in desperation as Klaus tries to rev up his powers again. His eyes are no longer closed; he’s fearfully watching Diego do battle. 

Diego hasn’t had the chance to throw a single knife. They’re stuffed precariously in his waistband. Both hands outstretched, he stands ready to catch the bullets that speed towards him. Before they can strike skin, he shoves them away, mostly up towards the ceiling. One of them ricochets rather than implants, and he startles as it cuts into the floor a foot behind him. 

“Klaus, come on!” Ben urges, pulling forward the monster in his gut. It’s been years since he’s had the feeling. After he’d died, the Horrors didn’t come knocking at the portal door any more, and he rarely had a reason to consciously summon the thing. 

One of the assailants moves into the kitchen. Ben jumps in front of his gun, but the bullets whiz harmlessly through him, straight towards his siblings. 

Vanya yelps as they bounce off a shield of pure energy, shattering dishes and splintering cabinets. Her body shakes as she fights a war against entropy, holding the energy in place. 

“Got it!” Klaus yells suddenly, illuminated in crackling blue. 

The gunmen falter as twenty-odd dead people flicker into view. Their moans fill the room, only increasing in volume as they realize they can be heard. Ben pushes through the sudden crowd, shaking off a particularly grabby woman with a caved-in skull. Tentacles writhe in the pit of his stomach, but before he can set them free, the three ghastliest, loudest corpses stumble forward, screeching in agony. The bullets that pepper their bodies don’t hinder them in the slightest. The ghosts lunge past the guns, losing their solidness as they dive _into_ the men holding the weapons. The gory bodies dissolve into wisps of blue smoke, and the three assassins jerk around as if electrocuted. They wail gutturally, just like the ghosts, but it’s all the more unsettling to hear the noise come from flesh and blood. Guns at their sides, the men snap upright - horrific puppets on strings, obeying orders from an unseen master. Just as Diego hurls a knife, the three men turn on their heels and flee at breakneck speed the way they came, the blade slicing through the empty space behind them. 

Diego starts after them, grimacing as he knocks aside a crying corpse with loose-hanging intestines. He turns around when Lila calls his name. 

He scans the room for her, holding the side of his head again. His eyes land on Ben. Diego sees him, actually sees him, the instant before the entire spectral world winks out again. Ben's invisible, but the rest of the dead are truly gone. Banished. 

“Ben?” Diego gasps, staring hard at the now empty air in front of him. “Ben!” 

Ben laughs with manic relief. His siblings are alive. His siblings are alive, and Diego saw him. 

Lila emerges from her hiding spot, eyes wild and rattled. She stumbles towards Diego, like moving her legs is taking considerable effort. Her gaze skips around the room as she searches for ghosts she can no longer see. Beneath his own happiness, Ben feels a pang of sympathy that she’s gotten caught up in all of this. 

Diego wraps his arms around her. She curls closer to him, just for moment, before spitting out a determined, “I’m fine.” Diego nods, lets her pull away. He wipes a tear from her cheek and whispers something Ben can’t make out, before making his way behind the kitchen counter. 

“What the hell was that?” Ben hears Diego ask, in muted amazement rather than accusation. After verifying that the TV salesman is still breathing, Ben ducks behind the counter as well. 

He’s met with a familiar sight. Klaus, pressed into a corner, hugging his knees tight to his chest. His eyes are unfocused, darting around frantically like they do after a nightmare. Diego’s knelt down in front of him, and Vanya’s pressed to his side, face painted with worry. 

“That wasn’t me,” Klaus whispers, in a voice like ice. 

Diego reaches out for him, slowly. Klaus pulls his limbs impossibly closer, but lets his brother's hand rest on his knee. 

“That was badass,” Diego encourages gently. “You totally saved us back there.” 

“I didn’t do that,” Klaus insists, shaking his head. “I- I didn’t even know _they_ could do that.” 

"Which part?" Vanya asks, delicate as ever. 

The possession, if Ben had to hedge a guess. He hadn't known that was possible, either. Klaus offers no answer, blinking rapidly and trembling like he's trying to come down from space. 

“Ben’s here, did you know?” Diego asks, like that might calm him. 

Klaus’s hands shake as he scrubs the guilt from his face. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. I’ll make him visible later, alright? I just need a minute.” 

Vanya offers him soft reassurances. Diego nods and gives him his space, patting his knee before going to check on the others. 

Ben waits, silent, until Vanya finally goes to grab a pack of frozen peas for Diego’s head. He listens to her apologize profusely for slamming him into a wall. Diego, to his credit, shrugs it off and thanks her for the assist. 

“Are you alright?” Ben asks, momentarily alone with his brother. 

Klaus stares desperately at him, haunted. “Tell me I didn’t do that,” he begs in a whisper. “Tell me I didn’t do that or I swear on your grave I will go find some pills right now.” 

Ben sighs. He lets his hand hover over Klaus’s own, like he used to do before anything else was possible. “You don’t need to be afraid of your powers, Klaus,” he insists, gently. “You did good.” 

Klaus shakes his head vigorously. He pulls his hand away to clutch at his dog tags, the other arm still wound tightly around his knees. Ben tries to lighten the mood. “Kind of Batman of you to let them go alive,” he jokes. “But that’s okay, I’ll pull ‘em apart next time.” 

“I didn’t do that,” Klaus hisses defensively, eyes like an open wound. “Why the fuck would I let them leave alive?” 

Ben shrugs, anxious to switch topics. Across the room, Diego’s arm is around Lila’s shoulders, and Elliott is excitedly pantomiming Vanya’s supersonic wave. “It’s fine,” Ben insists, dismissing his brother’s sputtered argument. “You saved the day, anyway.” 

Klaus ignores the praise, face pinched and red. “Ben. It doesn’t make any ‐” 

“So, hey,” Ben interrupts, jittery with impatience. He pushes himself off the ground, eager to join his other two siblings. “Diego totally saw me. Think you could make me corporeal now?” 

His brother mutters to himself, muffled sentence fragments about possession and screaming and control. Ben snaps in front of his face to get his attention back. He’ll apologize for being an asshole later. Right now, he’d like to cash in on two of the many reunions Klaus owes him. 

“Please? Just for a little while,” he compromises. It’s misleading, he knows. Once he returns to a world where someone other than Klaus can hear him, it’ll be awful hard to go back. 

Klaus buries his face into his knees, letting his hair fall in a curtain around him. His hands slide along his scalp, curls wrapping around his fingers. 

Ben beams when they start to glow blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey friends, i have finals coming up, so please forgive me if the next chapter is delayed a week or so. also: thank you x10 to everyone who's stuck with me this far! i appreciate each and every one of you <3


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